


Fireflies

by Seleno_Sofia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Conspiracy, DNF, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Fireflies, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Sex, No Smut, Ok they don't stay dead so yeah, Old Friends, Old Married Couple, Orphanage, Orphans, Romantic Soulmates, Skephalo, Soulmates, Watch me desperately ignore SMP canon, Weekly Updates, dreamnotfound, kingdom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27766462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seleno_Sofia/pseuds/Seleno_Sofia
Summary: It seems that for as long as George has been king, there has been a rather innocuous green hoodlum on the streets that goes by the name of Dream. The kingdom is in remarkable peace, though George can't take much of the credit for it, he would be lost without Sapnap. Sapnap, on the other hand, is too frustrated with the fact that the King won't let him caught Dream. It would be so easy, especially with the number of times he visits the king at his own castle, but only the king and the outlaw know about that. Meanwhile, a small valley province known as L'Manberg has been wanting to break from the crown; its leaders Wilbur, Tubbo, and Tommy trying anything and everything. And then there's Drista. Everyone knows her brother, yet she works as a guard at the castle. Why? Only George and Dream know that. They hold a lot of secrets, from others and each other. However, there is some tension rising from 4 figures in the kingdom, but only one is a true threat to all.   Updates roughly every week (I only promise to try).
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	1. Cobwebs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, so first things first, the disclaimers. I do not ship real people, this is a work using the characters they play rather than them as real people. More specifically, their Dream SMP characters. If you don't like it, click away. I am only ok writing and publishing this because but Dream and George have said they are ok with the shipping. Not enough? Dream said not to send hate to others on his behalf, no matter what. If they ever say they aren't ok with it, it's going down. Cool? Cool, here's the story (this is my first fic ever so bare with me, apologizes in advance for grammar mistakes).

The air in the king’s chamber is warm and heavy. The sunlight hasn’t yet turned to those golden oranges that define the start of the evening, but it’s slowly moving there. There is still no need to light the torches that sit silently on their mounts as the windows allow the candle-colored warmth to coat the room. The king sits there on a small chair, taking off his cape and heavy crown. His shoulders relax, and his hair is freed from its daily constraint. His brown eyes are glazed with the caramel of the surrounding sunlight, the events of the day weighing them down with a soft tiered coat. A shadow appears on his face, the shape of a man projected on the wall. He doesn’t need to look up to see who it was.

“You came to visit,” he speaks up.

“How could I not? I haven’t seen you in a while, Gogy.”

The name hits a soft spot that had laid dormant for so long. The feeling of a firefly walking on the back of his palm, a warm and sweet sap building in his chest. No one had called him anything but his title other than close friends and, of course, the slender giant at his window. The memory of grass growing under his feet bubbles back up to the surface.

“Are you going to stay on the window or are you going to come in?” he says, breaking his train of thought.

“You know I only enter with an invitation,” the tall man teases.

_I didn’t invite the nickname_ , he thought. The taller man jumps off his perch on the window down unto the large and luxurious carpet. The king keeps his eyes on the laces of his boots as he unties them, taking as many extraneous steps as possible, eyes refusing to meet the other's. The taller man does not approach him, he stands on the edge of the room, still and cautious. The king can feel him there, close enough to make him aware of him, far enough to feel cold despite his indisputable warmth. But now? He is so, so cold.

“You are really going to go the long way about undoing does laces, aren’t you?” the intruder asks, pointing out the obvious.

“Perhaps, is that an issue?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question.”

The man lets go of a small giggle as a smirk finds its way across his face. It warms the king at his core. He feels the echo of his laugh bounce off the walls of his head, lulling him into a calm, relaxed state. The small jump his heart makes tortures him. He knows what the feeling is, he had always known; he couldn’t not know. The feeling of running around the open field, hand in hand, the sun on their backs as they made their miniature escape. Having to relive that moment with such tension is miserable for the poor king.

“You’re so warm,” the king mumbles, just loud enough for the other to hear, aiming to fluster the smartmouthed man with him.

“I-,” the man stops for a second to process what he has heard, “...what?”

The king looks up at his immediate companion. His face is concealed by the ceramic smiley face that is somehow completely and perfectly polished, no matter how much it’s exposed to the elements. However, it doesn’t do much to hide the redness on his ears. He looks slightly stiff, breath caught on his throat, head racing faster than words as always. Normally, the roles are reversed, but it’s more fun when his de facto knight is the one in this position. What sticks out to the king is the way that he can tell that, even though flustered, his eyebrows frown in anger: an omnipresent, burgeoning anger.

“You are so soft,” the king explains with the texture of soft velvet on his tongue.

“Maybe. You shouldn’t say that though,” the green-wearing man supplies, trying to walk the rope of their current mood yet still remarkably cold.

“And why would that be?”

The guest gestures to the entire castle, the stiffness giving into a wave of mild anger.

“Because you’re king," he spits, "The king shouldn’t exchange pleasantries with a _hoodlum_.”

There is just the right amount of poison in his words that it reminds the King of why they really shouldn't speak like this: they shouldn’t speak at all.

“Clay-,” the King stops to correct himself, bitterness stinging him, “Dream, just pick what it is you’re going to do. Don’t play with me.” 

The words come cold and sharp, but never sharp enough to leave bruises, never enough to hurt, “I am sick of it.”

“I refuse," the other asserts, unmoving and unforgiving, "I won’t pick a side, you know that.” That does hurt.

“I know,” the King speaks in defeat, his throat tightens, a crying reflex really, as his heart aches just a little, “I know.”

He looks down at his completely undone boots; the orange sun does nothing to lift his spirits. He lifts his head to face the man with the smiley mask, netherite armor, green hood, and green underclothes that only peak through slightly, but the man isn’t there; he is gone like a feather in the wind. The king feels his headspace turn from a stiff, heavy, weave to a loose and ragged tapestry. At some point he would have doubted if he was there at all; asked himself if maybe he was being stressed too much, maybe even blamed it on his colorblindness somehow. However, he hadn’t relied on those escapes for a long time.

He knew for a fact that Dream had been there. That name still didn’t feel right. It never did. Whether that was due to the hoodlum or the king, was unknown to both of them. There was no way he hadn’t been there. Even though he hadn’t even left a single strand of his hair, which the king knows to be a dirty yellow color, he had been there. He put his face in his hands, fingers running through his messy brown hair. He better not think about it too much. He prepares himself into more casual clothes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The streets of the king’s land are still partly full, though it was settling into the evening market rather than it’s daylight counterpart. From up on the rooftops, everyone looks like small worker ants making their way from one part of the nest to the next. Everyone except for the children. His sister was like them only a while back, irritative, distracted, carefree. He would have said reckless, but he knew that would fit him far better than it could a child. Dream jumps down from the nearby tree to the roof of the tall church. Well, he pearled, and thank God for ender pearls. This is mostly because it makes sneaking through the town square much easier. Also, thank God for invisibility potions, Bad never saw them coming.

His usual victim was making rounds, as usual, telling some kids to settle down a look for their parents. One of them, Dream knew, was from the orphanage: no parents to look for. He didn’t blame Bad _too_ much, of course, but he felt some retribution was in order. He jumps down- yes, actually jumps this time- and lures the kid behind one of the stands.

He has bright brown eyes with fair black hair. He is on his tiptoes as he touches Dream’s mask, small fingers tracing the curve of the lop-sided smile.

“Oh my gowd!,” the boy squeals, “ you’re Dweam!”

Dream felt his chest lift with golden tiny butterflies of pride at this kid’s excitement. He reminds him of someone, the butterflies dare turn to fireflies, he fights down the memory.

“Do you like my mask?” he asks kindly.

“Yes! I love your mask!”

“Really, buddy,” Dream says, as he pulled something out of his pocket, “would you like one too?”

The boy’s eyes somehow grow even wider and seem to reflect the entity of the half-set sun. Dream’s plan is in motion. He takes an apple from the stand and holds it in front of the kid- without him knowing where he got it from, of course.

“Would you like this apple too?”

The boy reaches for it, but Dream quickly moves it out of reach.

“You are going to have to help me first.”

…

Dream looks down at where Bad stood occasionally screaming “Language!” or making sure no one was in danger of hurting themselves. He pearls down right behind him and carefully sneaks closer, a devilish grin visible under his mask.

“Ooooooh, Baaaaaaad…”

The knight jumps forward pulling his sword with confidence, albeit, in a small panic.

“You muffin, Dream! What are you going to do now!”

“Why to storm the castle of course!” he says in an almost sing-song voice.

“No you are not,” Bad says as his heart rate jumps into the 100s, “you'll have to get through me.”

“You really think you can stop me,” he raises an eyebrow, “you are a good knight Bad, but,” he takes an invisibility potion, “not better than me!”

Bad is ready to run, expecting a strength potion, but he losses track of Dream. He looks around in a panic as some folks run to their homes while others go straight to the side-lines to watch. He has to be somewhere close, maybe in the crowd, on the roofs? Or maybe…

“Over here Bad!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bad sees a movement towards a stand. He runs to it, defensive position active, ready to swing. He looks down to the storage of the stand to see two black dot eyes. A victorious smile strikes his face. He gleefully begins to move boxes and takes the mask into his hands. Then, out of the darkness of the storage, appear two bright brown eyes. The small boy jumps out, giggles eating up Bad’s confusion and panic. He goes to turn around and look for the vigilante when he feels a pull at his leg. He was standing in cobwebs. _Cobwebs._

“Well,” Dream says, “good to see you too old friend!”

“Dream! You ragamuffin, don’t you dare go to the castle!” Bad struggles to free himself from Dream’s simple yet effective trap.

“Don’t worry, Bad,” he reassures the stuck man as he hands the boy an apple and a couple of coins, “I already spoke to the king.”

“What?!”

Dream gives a hardy laugh as he walks away from him, dropping a sleeping potion to keep anyone from seeing where he’s going. He goes to the boy and before he goes under the potion’s effects, he lays him on a block of hay to make sure he is comfortable. He pulls the mask from Bad’s hands and leaves it in between the boy’s arms. He sees his sister arrive, she gives him a knowing look: she won’t give him away, she never would. He walks into the woods, his bright greens disappear in a few seconds. He knows George will hear about it. That’s the point. He’s King, after all, he can deal with it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George is sitting at a round table with Sapnap at his right. The familiar circular room with stones on the walls and a large round table was George’s equivalent of a table of knights. Except he and Sapnap were the only ones that ever met here. Maybe King Eret met here with knights. They may have, George thinks, each had a set chair and a map adored the perfectly level surface before him. Now, however, it was Sapnap’s daily test of restraint. Sapnap runs him through most of what had happened in the day. Mostly about Tommy and his rebellion shenanigans and some complaints about some dead pets about something. George, in all honesty, always has to ask a lot of questions. These sessions used to be held in a much more serious manner with their formal daylight clothes. However, since they usually last more than 2 hours so Sapnap can explain everything to George and then discuss somethings for the following day, they gave up on formalities and just go to the open meeting room ready to go straight to bed afterward.

Honestly, most of this would probably have been unimaginable if it weren’t for their history. Sapnap was basically George’s assigned friend. When he was taken in by the prior king, he was given Sapnap as a playmate as he wasn’t allowed to hang out with his old friends from the orphanage. As far as why Sapnap and not anyone else, he was told that it was because he was some distant cousin. In all truth, Sapnap was from one of the most wealthy families around, so odds are that that was the main reason. However, this was pretty irrelevant now because they got along like brothers and he would be so lost without him.

George knows that most of his questions are rudimentary for this sort of work, and even then he isn’t good with coming up with plans to fix problems. Sapnap normally brainstorms something, and, after lengthening explanations, George will usually agree and give him the go-ahead. In truth, he knows he doesn’t know what he was doing. If it weren’t for Sapnap, and his everlasting patience, the kingdom would have gone under the second King Eret went missing.

“So, why do we care about L’Manberg again?”

“Because,” Sapnap explains for the septillionth time, “if he gets away with it then anyone else will think they can do the same.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

“But even then, this is all mostly pretty low stakes, Tommy doesn’t pose much of a threat. Honestly, we can send Drista to deal with it.”

“Drista? As in Dream’s sister, Drista?”

“Yeah, I mean she already messes with him as is, giving her the assignment to keep Tommy under control would be easy. He is kinda like you in that way. Annoying.”

“Hey, I am the King! You don’t get to make fun of me, idiot. Well then, Drista it is. You don’t get to send someone to deal with me though.”

“Yeah right, whatever you say you’re majesty.”

Drista, who was right outside the door, as she is always the one to guard them during these meetings, lets out a small “Yes!” in victory to bother Tommy some more. Then, she sees a face that, unfortunately, isn’t completely unexpected. Bad comes storming in, fits at his side, face red, and shoulder up as high as his chin. He looks like an idiot, Drista thinks. She already knows what he was angry about, and she finds it hilarious that her brother’s nonsense bothered him this much. Just as she finishes that thought, he throws the door open.

“Oh. My. GOD!”

“What is it Bad?” George asks, being taken out of his mundane daze.

“Dream is such a Muffin head!”

“Again?!,” Sapnap asks in disbelief and disapproval.

“He said he was going to storm the castle!”

“What!” Sapnap exclaims flabbergasted.

“He said he’d do what?” George say/s. That didn’t seem right. Dream won’t do that, would he?

“Well, what did he do?” George adds.

Bad sinks into his cloak, “He trapped me in a cobweb.”

“Wait, I am more confused now,” George says, unable to hide his smile.

“He gave an extra mask to a kid and tricked me into getting stuck in a cobweb.”

“The hoodlum..” Sapnap muttered.

They continued to talk about the harassment and petty theft that Dream has always been up to. They speak about what to do to punish him when he is eventually caught; George doesn’t really participate when they land on this conversation. He knows Clay will never be caught. He’d had Sapnap run everything through him and the damage he does is minimal, if not neglectable. Even despite that, Clay just won’t get caught. He’s too good for that, not to offend Bad, but Dream is on a league of his own. Even when he was just a boy in training, he was better than everyone else at his swordplay and every other aspect of, well, everything. He always moved faster and quicker, reactions turning to attacks all at once. Surely his mind paces even faster. It _has_ to to come up with half the things he does on the fly. He never gives a second thought about what he says though, and even then what he says can only a fraction of what runs behind those emerald green eyes that splinter him like a vine growing into him. How he glitters like a firefly in the night, how he towers over him and, even when angered, he’s as gentle as rose petals on skin.

George takes a breath in an attempt to reset his brain. He should focus on his misbehavior, his crimes, his smiley mask that only covers his eyes and leaves his lips in full view. _God, I am more of an expert on Clay than I am at being King._

“We have to get on this George,” Sapnap demands.

“I mean, at this point, what is even the point?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is even the point’?! George, he has threatened to storm the castle.; you could be in danger.”

“Sapnap, if he were going to do something, don’t you think he would have done it by now? We have been at this for years, he isn’t going to put anyone in danger apart from Bad’s dignity.”

“Well, I think my dignity is worth saving!” Bad cut in, slightly jokingly, but mostly genuinely offended.

“George, we have been having his conversation for years too.”

“So what makes you think I’ll change my mind?”

Sapnap is about to retaliate, but he knows that he’s right. He has tried so, so much to get George to put up posters with Dream’s smiley face under a reward price, but he has refused every single time. He could get angry at George, but then he would only forgive him later. The only way he is going to get Dream out of the way is for someone to catch him during one of his escapades, which is more than unlikely to happen. He knows about some of George’s history with Dream, but not much. He won’t ever bring it up either; it doesn’t seem right for him to do that. He knows enough to understand why Geroge won’t let him face the consequences of his actions, albeit not enough to agree.

“Fine then, we should call it for today.”

“Ugh, come on, can’t you at least let me vent about Dream’s abuse today?”

“You have done that enough, plus, George needs his beauty sleep.”

“He is right about that.”

“Ok… Good night then you guys.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

George leaves the meeting tired and ready for bed. Bad is going to see where he can find himself some cobwebs. Sapnap? His night isn’t done; he’s going to go see an old friend. He often does this when he’s fed up with George’s lack of authority and general disapproval. He had met this guy, surprisingly enough, through his research into the history L’Manberg had made in its short life. He had been exiled from there, though Sapnap never really found out why. He can’t see why either; he was a good guy to rant to. He goes out the back gate and heads to town. He knows he’ll be there. He always is. Sapnap makes his way to the bar to meet his friend, Jschlatt.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The musky smell of bottles and vices fills the damp air of the bar. Although there are always couples trying to drown each other and a group of drunks laughing themselves senseless, the back tables are always calm and quiet. There, on the table to the far left, sits a man with goat horns and dangerous eyes. Sapnap orders a drink and takes a seat next to him, quietly slipping as he lets the buzz overtake him. The words he is going to spill up began to rise from the sands of his mind. His tongue turning into fine silk that is ticking to say all that bothers him.

“So,” the well-dressed older man speaks, “the big man not budging, huh?”

Sapnap pulls his head from his hands to face his acquaintance, “Yup.”

He takes another sip of his drink, it’s strong, but not nearly strong enough. He fights the urge to order a shot as he straightens his mind enough to vocalize.

“He won’t let me at Dream.”

“That’s old news.”

“It’s goddamn daily,” he utters with a punch, “he could hold a knife to his throat and he would still take an arrow for’em.”

“Well, I hadn’t noticed the king's stubbornness was this deep. I wonder how much it would take to break that.”

“Goddamn-fucking-arson I tell you. And even then, that’s only if we catch him.” 

The messy cloud of lucidness begins to give way to a sloppy green goo; in short, drunkenness.

“Take it easy there, advisor. You don’t want to fall off your chair.”

“I only come here once in a blue moon,” Sapnap protests as he takes a large gulp, “and fuck you.”

“That’s no way to speak to a friend, now is it?” Jschlatt swings his drink in his hands, letting the growing swirl overtake his vision.

“Is there anything else you spoke of apart from that annoying green prick?” he supplies tactfully.

Sapnap opens his mouth, offering Jschlatt a bible of information on the ridiculousness of the kingdom's affairs. Of course, Sapnap wasn’t dumb, even when his better judgment is diluted by the effects of his drink, he speaks in general terms and of how many questions the king asks on simple matters. Some things the public was aware of, some things that were still partially in the shadows. It was nothing new though; there has never been anything new for years. But to Jschlatt, this news of the King’s incompetence was new. He already knew the king wasn’t as great as he seemed, but this was just embarrassing, if not outright conspiratorial. At this point, with how much the king seems to stick out for the street jester, he would bet he has some stake on his capture; He must have. Then there is also the matter that the man in green was far too skilled to be just any other thief; he had to have been professionally trained.

But just as he is about to voice this concern, a tall, and loud-mouthed boy steps foot into the bar with a shorter girl behind him. They are louder than the entire entourage of people who are already there as they throw verbal daggers at each other, Drista more so than Tommy. They had just made their way back from L’Manberg after Drista made sure that Tommy couldn’t even reach Tubbo who was, as always, admiring the nearby bees.

“Drista, don’t you have royal guard duties to take care of?” asks the boy in between laughs.

“I already told you, child, I am your royally appointed babysitter.”

“Ok well this is a bar and you are more of a child than me, Drista,” Tommy points out.

“I have the age of a child. You, Tommy, _are_ a child.”

“Hey! You’re a real piece of work!”

“Thanks! Anyways, I am getting out of here; I hate the smell of alcohol. Any last words?”

“You’re a fucking idiot!”

“You too, Tommy!”

Drista waltz out of the bar, nose pinched between fingers as Tommy makes his way to the back. His face lights up in a mischievous grin at the sight of Sapnap only to then quickly sour when he notices his company. He takes a seat next to Sapnap and across from Jshlatt, eyes trained on the older of the two. He looks over at Sapnap who, despite being clearly under the influence of the liquid that danced in the air, holds himself up at Tommy’s arrival albeit still casual.

“What’s up, Napsap, is George still being a dick about Dream?”

“You know why I ever come to this bar, Tommy,” he responds, his tongue too tired to properly pronounce the words.

“The poor man can’t seem to catch a break,” Jschlatt adds, looking up at Tommy and then at Sapnap.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

The conversation cools as Tommy refuses to supply his usual banter in the presence of the horned man. Sapnap could sense the tension as his mind spun. He isn’t going to break open the silence that laces the space between them with thick leather. He waits for someone to give in, to leave, to say something. Tommy was annoying, but what he lacks in professionality he makes up for in determination, or, perhaps, stubbornness. 

He’s prediction pans out as Jschlatt speaks up as he stands from the table, “I think I should get going then. I have a feeling I have overstayed my welcome. Even though I am not in L’ Manberg,.”

“You know you weren’t just exiled from L’ Manberg,” Tommy declares with more of an ominous seriousness than his usual recklessness.

Jschlatt makes his way to the bartender where he sits and makes small talk with him. Tommy looks at Sapnap with the tension gone, but the seriousness is still pressed on his features.

“Look, Sapnap, I know George can be a lot to deal with but don’t go spilling your guts to Jschlatt.”

“That’s king to you, Tommy, not Goerge. And besides, you just want me to let you have L’ Manberg.”

A smile finds Tommy’s face as he sees a chance to promote L’ Manberg and speaks faster than Sapnap and processes, “I mean I don’t know why you guys won’t let us have L’ Manberg. I would stop bothering you if you just gave it to us and you would have one last headache to worry about.”

“You are going to give me a headache.”

Sapnap gets up, or as best as he can with the mind-fog still clinging to him, in an attempt to get away from the walking billboard that Tommy has transformed to. Everyone watches as the king’s advisor is pestered out of the bar by the tall obnoxious boy. They are halfway to the door when Tommy notices Jschlatt asking for a very odd drink: a pigtail. The bartender gives him a look and walks into the back; Jschlatt follows him. _Strange, he can’t be up to anything good._ Sapnap and Tommy leave the bar and walk for a while before Tommy is bared at the castle gates. Drista blows a raspberry at his denial. Sapnap needs to sleep off his soon-to-be hangover.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moonlight has established itself on the window of the Goerge’s bedroom. The massive canopy bed is soft and smooth to the touch, but nothing could lull him to sleep. This is, to his dismay, the normal nightly situation. He never knows what it is that keeps him up. These half-baked and malformed thoughts always blinking in and out of his mind don’t help. They are always there enough for him to notice them, but never enough to recognize them. The torches remain off as there was no need to light them when he’s trying to call unconsciousness. Then, an uncalled-for figure makes its appearance the second time that day. He lands on the balcony this time, the thump of his boots cause George to sit up. He got up to see the tall man seated on the edge of the balcony. Despite the fact that he must have been there for a while, he still worries once he gets a clear view of him.

“Clay!” he semi-yells as he rushes off his bed, “Get off of there. You could fall!”

“I’ll take that as an invitation,” Dream says as he positions himself before the shorter one.

“I- I swear to God- it’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if you got wind of my little show today.”

Despite his better judgment, a shy smile sneaks onto George’s lips with a chuckle, “Yeah Bad won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“Oh really? Well, you are never going to hear the end of it unless I get caught,” Dream speaks with a teasing tone.

“You won’t get caught though,” George answers as a fact. No doubts in his mind.

Dream raises an eyebrow and a soft warmth starts to build, “Why would that be, your majesty?”

George shakes his head as he makes his way next to Clay, the closest they’ve been in a while. He looks out to the hills and trees that his balcony faces. Not busy streets or structured towers, just the forest and the black ink sea of the sky, stars sparkling here and there, only for them to see.

“You know why that is.”

The words fall like honey drops on Clay’s ears, they flood him with the soft warmth that Goerge brings to him. Fireflies find their way to the balcony and fly in front and around them; the wind blows steadily as it runs through George’s hair. His eyes are the color of dark chocolates, caramel dripping from them as fireflies poke in and out. Endless pools of sweetness that Clay wants to simultaneously drown in and devour. They say nothing. Clay feels the fire of rage that normally burns in him calm itself down to a candle, gentle and fragile: private. He wished this were their life, he allows himself to think, no hiding in the woods and thinking before time passes to save his sorry ass, just quiet nights, and passive fireflies. And, of course, George. _Always George._

They haven't ever been this close since they were kids. George knows that they both missed this; he isn’t sure why they had to miss this. He had offered Clay a job as his knight years ago more times than he could count. Clay would always get angry and pearl way, not to be seen for weeks making Goerge worry that something could have happened to him. Then he would show up again, and he would slowly try to build his trust again only to fall to the same mistake. Eventually, he gave up and settled for the bittersweetness of their relationship. He doesn’t like it, not one bit. He wants to talk to him without the unspoken brick wall between them. Without having to hide the fact that Clay was ever there at all by morning. He walked past all of that tonight; he isn’t even sure why. It just happens some nights, when he would get too close without noticing. They say very little those nights, these nights. They can’t as they won’t be able to take it back. The things that run through their minds are nothing out of the ordinary, it’s the fact that the other is here that makes it different. Clay won’t come back for weeks after these nights. This night was likely no different, _right?_

“I should go,” Dream says after a small lifetime passes.

“You don’t have to,” George answers, pleading in his voice.

“I do have to. I can’t stay in this place, too fancy for me.”

“A haircut is too fancy for you” George teases, revealing what he had been watching without noticing.

A soft blush shamelessly takes over Dream’s face as he puts his hand on his dirty-blonde hair, hood down. 

“Yeah, ok,” he pulls his hand down and sets them on the balcony's railing, “see you around, Gogy.”

He jumps off the balcony only to land on a nearby ladder, giving George a small heart attack. Dream smiles back, happy to have gotten a small one over the short king. George lets go of a loud sigh, partly in annoyance, partly in relief. _God damn it, why are you like this?_

“See you around, idiot,” Goerge whispers to himself.

He makes his way back to his bed, his once untamable blankets smoothing themselves around his short body, pillows hugging his head. He falls asleep in seconds, memories a lullaby to his ears. Dream passes his sister, she holds up 5 fingers, 5 minutes before she goes after him. He rolls his eyes as he jumps onto the trees and blends into the fauna before Drista can even begin to go after him. _Dumbass._ He finds his house at the top of a tree far away from the walls of the castle but close enough to see George’s balcony. He makes his way to the highest branch where he perches himself onto his man-made nest. He starts to fall asleep, no fire bothering him that night. He won’t go back to see George for a while, he thinks before sleep swallows him. He mentally notes to go to the orphanage the following day. The honey in his heart makes him wish for sleep even more. A firefly lands on the palm of his hand, his eyes closing just as it’s light begins to fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this was way longer than I expected it to be. I may not even finish the story though I'll try, real life comes first. If I don't I'll post my notes on how the story ends so you don't have to leave on a cliffhanger. Don't get used to long chapters like this, it's unlikely to stay like this. I'll try to post the next part in about 2 weeks time. Be patient and have a good day.
> 
> PS: I am just going to edit a few things in this chapter in between homework assignments. So yeah, no big changes, just grammar and some sentences here and there for pacing's sake.


	2. Dandelions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The L'Manberg crew goes through an emotional rollercoaster while Clay goes down memory lane to then make a sharp U-turn the second he realizes that truck of feelings is headed right for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! And way earlier than expected too. This was meant to be a fluff story and now I am 6 pages deep into planning and ideas, oh well. Either way, I'll be going back to chapter one for a while just to fix all the embarrassing mistakes and, again, some pacing. Because I cannot side with brevity ever in my life. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter; I had a blast writing it.

“What do you _mean_ I have to go to L’Manberg?”

Sapnap rubs the back of his neck in an attempt to shave off some of the tension. He looks into his mind and the horrible memory of the prior night slowly pieces itself back together, though it’s all tainted and partly bleached by the drinks. He just knows that he cannot stand to deal with Tommy today, and, according to him, he had agreed to go to L’Manberg to inspect the “government system thing.” He guessed that Tommy thought that, if he got a look at it, that it would somehow get him on their side about the independence issue. But, to be frank, Sapnap only remembered a lot of rambling and very few words, much less their meaning strung together. Either way, his hangover was mentally killing him, and, although he was remarkably good at hiding when he was any apart from sober, he wanted to jump onto a couch and sleep off the day.

So, he figured it was only right to send the king to deal with it. He was just the royal advisor, after all, he could only speak to the king, not take his place altogether (although he thought he’d be pretty good at his job). Regardless, it was morning and that meant that the dukes for every province were here to report to the king; well to report to Sapnap for him to explain to the king later. This means he could just tell George to go deal with Tommy for him; more formal language was in order.

“You see, dear king, the rebels want you to go witness the small governmental system they have assembled to control the area they refer to as L’Manberg.”  
The king looked at his hand, a small panic blossomed though he kept it under wraps, “You had not told me that they had a government set up. This seems like they are opposing the authority of the crown. Should I be concerned about any problematic action from them?”

Should I be worried?

“They have no noticeable military power, your highness, and our knights and militia are ready at a moment’s notice. They need us to give them their independence for this to go any further, assembled government or not.”

Nah, we got more military power. We’re good.

The nervousness began to trickle it’s way out of the king’s system as his blood began to dilute the short adrenaline back to its normal levels.

He sits up on his throne and says, “In that case, I will be at the doors of L’Manberg at midday if all goes accordingly. Drista,” he says, calling to the young girl at the corner of the room, “please inform the people of L’Manberg of my visit so that they may prepare as needed.”  
“Yes your majesty,” she says as she made her way out of the room without waiting for dismissal, a smirk undoubtedly under her own mask.  
“Aren’t you going to stop her, your majesty?” speaks up Duke Skeppy of the quartz and diamonds province.  
“No, she is but a child, after all. She’s family and is allowed some liberties.”

No one says anything. Drista’s presence in the castle has always been an odd one. Everyone knows of her brother; it was no mystery. What was a mystery was why she was here, why she was allowed to stay here, and how her brother was still on the loose even though she was here. Sapnap asked himself these questions all the time, but it was under that same file as the wanted posters: under lock and key and completely unmovable and untouchable. He looks at the concern on all the faces around him, “Welcome to my world,” he wants to say but holds his still not-fully-sober tongue still. The dusty silence is broken by the king clearing his throat.

“I believe that ends our meeting for today,” the king announces, willfully ignoring the silence and stares, “you are all dismissed.”

…

“Sapnap, you never told me yesterday about this L’Manberg trip. Was it a change last minute?” George asks, more curious than anything.  
“Yeah, I thought about it after our meeting yesterday and figured that it was a good idea, don’t you think?” he asks as his head weighs on his neck.  
“Ptf, you know that anything that gets me out of this castle is a good idea. I should go out more,” George answers with a friendly smile.  
“You probably should, you are looking pretty pale,” Sapnap sighs, he really needed to get over this hangover.  
“And you should get some sleep. Go take the day off; I’ll get Bad to go with me,” Goerge offers with pity for his overworked advisor.  
“Yeah,” Sapnap yawns, “I think I’ll do that.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy is static when Drista shows up at the door of the courthouse where he, Tubbo, and Wilbur were discussing if anyone from the royal crown would actually show up. Of course, Drista had become a regular in L’Manberg, even before getting her royal assignment to look over them, so the others made sure to keep their hopes low: Drista could just be here on her regular assignment.

“Drista!” the awkwardly tall Tommy shouts as he approaches her.  
“Child,” she responds with a raised eyebrow, swiftly getting out of the way of his hug, “well you’re excited to see me.”  
“What- well of course I am! You never come to the courthouse unless you have something important to say.” Tommy says, mildly offended at his rejected hug.  
“Are you telling me that what I say isn’t important?” she quickly pointed out, twisting Tommy’s word to fit her bickering nature.  
“No, guys,” Tubbo breaks in, an apologetic smile and up-turned eyebrows facing Drista in case she was really angered by Tommy’s brashness, “we can get back to messing around once Drista tells us why she came to visit.”  
“Thank you for the opportunity to talk, Tubbo. Some people need to learn to wait their turn.,” Drista muses as she plays on Tommy exposed nerves.  
“Oh, you-” Tommy begins.  
“Tommy,” Tubbo cuts him off, “calm down, this could be important.”  
“Oh, it’s important when SHE says that someone is coming to see L’Manberg but you don’t believe me when I say it!” he spits as he gestures to himself dramatically by digging his right hand into his chest, the left out and open to his side.  
“Tommy you always say things, and we never know if you mean it or not,” Wilbur pipes up from his chair, laid back and slight bags under his eyes.  
“Well, uh,” Drista said, her usual comedic confidence flipping into a more helpful one, “Tommy is right this time. George is coming to L’Manberg!”

Surprised looks go around as they all look at Drista, waiting for her to start laughing and clarify that it was a joke. When she does no such thing, Tubbo lets out a loud “Let’s go!” as Wilbur sits up on his chair, eye bags gone in favor of a vivid expression. They had wanted to show the crown how self-sufficient their humble nation had become in hopes of him gaining more respect for them. They had played around with the idea for weeks as more of a far off dream, hoping to get someone like Sapnap to come, but now it was a reality; L’Manberg was becoming a reality. And the king was going to see it as it began to form.

“Oh my God! Tommy the king is coming! We can show him how independent L’Manberg is; how we set up a government! This is amazing!” the bee-loving boy lets out.  
Tommy stands with a smug look of self-righteousness on his face as he answers, “You are welcome very much, Tubbo. See how important I am to furthering L’Manberg, a worthy vice-president, aren’t I?”  
“Wait, wait,” Drista speaks.  
Despite the smiley on her face, they see a thinking look overtake her as she stays quiet before she asks, “how did you get Sapnap on board with this?”  
Both Tubbo and Wilbur consider this as they settle down and turn to Drista as she continues, “You are so annoying; He’ll go out of his way to ignore you. How did you manage to get him to even consider this?”

Tommy looks around the room as his tongue spills a series of “ums” and “erms” to fill the quiet of the other’s inquisitive stares. After some mumbling and nervous laughter, he eventually lets out that he may or may have not been following around a drunken Sapnap the night before. And, seeing how drunk he was, he may or may have not gotten him to agree to come to visit L’Manberg in exchange for his “temporary silence”. Then there is the possibility that he got up early to remind him and clarify that he had totally agreed to George being the one to come to L’Manberg. The room goes still as all eyes lay on him; the quiet sound of a loading bar over everyone’s head pressing on his eardrums. Then Drista lets out a loud and drawn out wheeze. The tension in the room drops immediately as everyone else relaxes in cheers.

“Well, good job, Tommy!” Wilbur exclaims, “Of course it would be your annoyingness to get us to a date with the king.”  
“Really,” Tommy says, a little surprised, “thanks!”  
“So, when is he coming?” Tubbo asks as he goes up to Tommy, putting a hand on his shoulder.

They all turn to Drista, who had just realized what had been asked and what would happen once she answered them. She pulls her hand to her chin and looks around at the walls as she makes sounds of uncertainty, pretending to mentally search for the crucial date and time. They all look at her, their cherry mood changing to one of expectation; they wait like children (well, two out of three of them are) for Drista to treat them to her information.

After what feels like minutes, Drista says, as nonchalantly as she can muster, “He’ll be here at around midday.” She waits for mayhem to break loose.

They were expecting a day, maybe a week, but not an answer that screamed that he was coming _that same day_.

Wilbur stands up and looks her dead in the eye, “Say that’s a joke right now.”

Drista silently shakes her head as she fights back a laugh. Tubbo’s face of joy quickly fades to one with wide eyes and a small frown only to then shift to one of worry and racing unorganized thoughts. Wilbur looks over at him studiously; silently measuring Tubbo’s reaction while Tommy starts sweating over how they are about to let him have it for setting them up on such short notice.

“Wilbur,” Tubbo mumbles, he turns to the man in a beanie, “how much longer until midday?”  
The effectively one-eyed man looks at him with pity; he answers as softly as possible in an attempt at some damage-control, “In about 4 hours, Tubbo.”

Tubbo silently gets up from the room and walks outside and out of sight from the others. Wilbur slowly and steadily moves his gaze to Tommy whose mouth is trying to move only for no words to come out. Drista couldn’t help but to chuckle to herself that Tommy, oh so foul-mouthed and garrulous Tommy, stood before her completely out of verbal ammunition when faced with a pissed off Wilbur.

“I think I’ll make my way out now,” she announces with a shit-eating grin infecting her every word.  
Tommy sees the opportunity for changing the subject and begins rambling, “You really don’t have to do that. You should stay to help us figure out what to do. I mean-”  
“Tommy.” Wilbur booms, Tommy immediately feeling his tongue go numb, “I think Drista should go check on Tubbo, don’t you think so?”

The death stare the older man is giving him is making him shrink down to the size of a mouse as Drista sneaks her way out of the courthouse. Neither of them say anything, but their ears buzz with the unspoken words between them and the haunting sound of Wilbur’s fuse running short. Tommy feels like he is stepping on uneven ground as his superior thinks his way around just how badly he wants to go off on Tommy for being a genius and an imbecile at the same time.

“Tommy,” he finally speaks.  
“Yeah” the boy answers.  
“You’re fucked.” It isn’t a question or a suggestion; it’s a fact and Wilbur makes sure to let Tommy know that.  
“yeah...”  
“You are helping to make this worthwhile.”  
“Yeah”

Wilbur turns away from Tommy and begins to move towards the door. They begin to walk outside to meet Tubbo and Drista. The latter had found some dandelions and bees and played with them alongside Tubbo in an attempt to get him to calm down; it seemed to be working too. Tommy is still on edge as he knows he got off way too easy, yet Wilbur’s eyes feel like two snipers aiming for his head. These are going to be a long 4 hours.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clay walks down the dirt road he has known since his childhood. He remembers how he would sometimes hitch a ride up on some stranger's wagon and then get off right before they arrived so he wouldn't be caught; he learned that the hard way. The surrounding forest was thick and heavy; dampness, and bugs on all sides. The trees here grew tall and sturdy, and they housed a dozen creatures each. The mosaic of noises was a familiar symphony to Clay having grown up next to it. From woodpeckers to squirrels, the sounds of the forest have always been a calming relief for him. It was something about the way that they made him forget everything that made the walk so worth it. When he would go up on a wagon, he would close his eyes and just listen, take it all in. He lets that familiar pine smell mixed with that soft scent of rainwater fill his head and drip to his toes. He, at some point he can’t make out himself, closes his eyes and allows his legs to guide him with muscle memory. For a moment, he feels like he's a boy again as the forest teleports him back to those days, the lightness of his past carelessness even returning to him in small waves. The walk becomes a blur as he opens his eyes again to see that he was almost there. He can see the tall roof of the main building as he gets closer and the ground levels out from its wild forest texture. The all-too-familiar sign read in worn out and faded letters, “The King’s Orphanage for Boys.”

He goes into the main building to exchange a few words with one of the caretakers. They all knew him at this point, despite how infrequent his visits were. They also knew that he was a man of few words, so they never bother him with anything more than a couple of phrases of acknowledgment. He makes his way to the back where a large field and hill are cleared for the boys to play in; he always thought it looked like an oasis from the dense forestry around it. Some of the boys ran up to him with a ball aimed at his feet. He quickly kicks it up into the air and juggles it between his knees and head and then back again. They looked up at him as they tried to get the ball out of his control; this proves fruitless when he starts bouncing it on his head.

“Hey! Give it back!” one boy with overalls squeals.  
“Oh, can you guys not get it?”  
“No, we can’t!” a taller one speaks up.  
“Oooooh, ok. Then let me just-” he says as he kicks the ball a solid 10 ft in the air.

The boys all began to run after it as one of them pulled on his pant leg for him to follow and play with them. It’s then that Clay, or Alan as the boys knew him, notices that the boy pulling him towards the others was the same one who had helped him out the night before. He was a small kid, probably around 10 to 11, and had a rambunctious look to him now that he wasn’t in complete awe of him.

“Hey, these pants are new! Don’t be ripping them up already,” he says playfully.  
“Oh weally? I thought you were still wearing your trwousers from when you lived here,” the boy shots back, clearly unable to pronounce his r’s half the time.  
“Ok, that’s enough then, you little rascal. I am going to walk around a little bit now,” the comparative giant that Alan is announces.

The boy gives him an angry look before running off after the others, likely to forget their interaction altogether. Some of the boys ask if he would stay for their bedtime and tell them stories again; they all loved it when Alan told them stories. He would make-up stories about the king and his knight, and how the knight would save the king only to then be saved himself. It was a game of cat and mouse, some of the boys had told him, but in a good way. Regardless, he has to let them down as he would be leaving a little after noon. This is followed by a graceless choir of “come-ons” and “oh mans” that complain to him. “No can do,” he tells them, receiving minimal results.

Still, the boys give him his space as he goes on to walk around the hill. The sun hits his face just so that he has to look down to keep his eyes from being burned. The grass is blanketed by a thin layer of yellow light making it glow. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a patch of small yellow flowers with light whites next to them at the bottom of the hill. Dandelions, he thinks, he doesn't remember there being that many. He crouches down to reach for one; his heart gives a flutter at a memory that jumps back to life like an arrow going through his head. The way the sun was high in the sky, the view of the boys from the bottom of the hill, it all hits him like a flood. He stands back up, dusting off his brown-ish pants and wine-colored blouse, he should go play with the boys while he is here. He turns back to them and they play dodgeball; Clay makes sure to stay far away from any dandelions, much to his heart’s protest.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a sunny summer afternoon in the open area of the orphanage. It had been annoyingly hot that past week, and George was sick of it. He could stand some sun here and there, but this was just ridiculous. Mostly because he couldn’t use the excuse that it looked like it would rain or that the clouds made him too sleepy to go run around and play; his hermit-ness was in full view as his classmates, who were also his roommates, went to play tag and hide-n-seek while he sat there messing with the near-by dandelions. He never liked sports anyways, he assures himself. The blinding sun kept getting in his eyes, and his pale skin, although feeding thankfully on the rare exposure, was starting to feel irritated by the obnoxiously bright rays.

It was then when a shadow shields him from the traitorous sun. His mild relief quickly gives into a quick wave of frustration as he realizes that he is probably going to get asked to play baseball or something else stupid. He would then have to turn them down; likely to then get picked on later. To his surprise, however, the tall boy sits down next to him on the soft grass. He looks up at the scrappy-looking young lad that now accompanies him. He has long hair that is in desperate need of a cut and is painted a dirty sun-ray color. He has small freckles across his cheeks and nose that reminded George of chocolate sprinkles. He wears simple and loose-fitting clothes, like most of the other kids, though they ended near his mid-calf rather than his ankles, leaving his inexplicably bare feet visible. He has a curious thing about him though, he seems to have a million things running in his mind that George can feel are on the tip of his tongue, about to come rushing out. George ignores him, trying to will him to go away as he unconsciously holds his breath with a small pout. This scarcely works, and this time isn’t any different.

“What are you doing?” asks the blonde boy.  
“Nothing,” George retaliates, trying to end the conversation before it even gets started.  
“No you’re not,” the other counters, scooting closer to see what George is messing with, a small smile forming, “you’re blowing wishes!”  
“What? No I am not! Dummy, leave me alone!” the brown-haired boy barks as he turns his head to look the other way.

Little George has never been graceful with his words and frequently says things much more harshly than intended. This usually didn’t bother him as it was often his only defense against the picking on and teasing all day long. But he didn’t like the sad and sincere hurt-puppy look that takes over the other’s face. It starts making him feel bad too, a weird feeling starting to blossom and mess with his stomach.

“Stop that,” he says all at once, more poignant than he meant for it to be, “it’s making me feel bad.”  
“Well you made me feel bad first! No one ever wants to be with me...” the freckled boy answered, salty tears seemingly coating his words despite his dry pouting face.

This isn’t helping the pit in George’s chest at all; his stomach continues making flips regardless of his protest. He almost felt sick, like when he ate that old bread despite everyone telling him it had gone bad. But this was different, it was like he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Like, if he did nothing to help make this weird kid happy, it wouldn’t go away ever. He didn’t know what to do; he never really had friends since everyone just made fun of him for his accent, which, despite having grown up with these kids all his life, was quite different from that of the others. So, when being faced with this slightly taller and awkward boy, and a stomach that kept punching him for making him feel bad, handing him a dandelion seems like the only logical solution.

His bright eyes, which George knows have to be either a yellowish amber or some variation of green, open wide, and a goofy smile forms from ear to ear. He happily takes the petite plant from George’s hand, his long fingers slightly wrapping around George’s for a second before cradling the dandelion in between them. Their once uncomfortable silence gradually morphs into a soft and comfortable cushion for the both of them. George still had some dandelions in his hand, but his attention was drawn to how his company admired the small gift he’d given him. He was looking and turning over every leaf and petal on the stalk before locking his eyes on the white hairs of the seeds, making sure not to miss even a single spot of pollen on it. He ogles at the light cloud around the seeds with a look that both holds awe and a childish protectiveness over it; George’s stomach silences as his heart begins to beat a little louder. All of the sudden, the other turns his head back to George, the latter having a small heart attack at the surprise of the movement and at the sommer-salt his tummy made again.

“What should I wish for?” he asks with more zeal than George had ever seen in his decade-long life.  
“I, um, I don’t know,” George quickly scavenges his mind for an answer, the image of the boy admiring the dandelion still replaying in his head as a warmth bloomed on his face, “I don’t know, wish for shoes?”  
“Shoes?” the taller repeated, a loud laugh filling George’s ears as it spills and floods his cheeks with red.  
“Shut up…” George says as he looks down at the ground in embarrassment, picking at the sunny and glowing grass. The blonde’s laugh furthers into a series of wheezes and gasps for air.  
“I am Clay, by the way,” he said, after his laughing fit calmed down to a manageable state and, between gasps, he asks, “what’s your name?”  
“George,” he said shyly as he made his stomach finally settled down.  
“You’re funny, Gogy.”  
“That’s not my name!”  
“I know.”

A stupid smile was displayed on Clay’s face, molded from pure boyish happiness and glee (and perhaps some mischievous pleasure at Gogy’sexpression). Gogy looked at him with a soft grin, albeit, still red in the face. He could put up with this one, he thought, he wasn’t that annoying. He looked at Clay’s hair, shining brighter than the sun that was pestering him just moments prior. This didn’t phase him, though, because he was preoccupied with watching Clay desperately trying to blow away the small dandelion as it stuck on stubbornly. In a move that was rather out of his character, and almost as an instinct, he took Clay’s hand in his and put the dandelion close to his mouth. In one gentle blow, he set free all the flying snowflakes that refused to be moved by Clay’s reckless breath. If Clay was admiring the dandelion before, the pure awe and admiration in his gaze at Gogy was as if he were the only one in the world.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” the shorter one spoke up, a bit of annoyance and offensiveness in his tone.  
“I-uh. Nothing!” said the younger, now a gentle blush at his ears, and his head looking at his toes.

Clay had seen Gogy at the foot of the hill when he would play tag with his friends. He was always alone and quiet, even in class. He had seen friends try to get him to join them only to be shut down, harshly, too, according to them. They would always make fun of him; Clay didn’t like that. For some reason he had grown to care about Gogy on the virtue of pity from afar, but, now, he wanted to kick all those people who said mean things about him. How could anyone get so angry at his friend? He was going to make them pay for that at bedtime. But for now, he is enjoying the comfortable peace between them. Clay was always high on energy and quick to get bored. However, this moment with Gogy seems to act as an expectation. The sun makes Gogy look shiny.

“You’re funny too Clay,” Gogy says, almost out of the blue and the shadow of a laugh in between words.  
Clay looks up at him, a little shy now, “you think so?”  
“Yeah,” Gogy said softly, “ I think so.”

The sun hugged the pair as they sat there in their silence that comforted them like they were sitting on fluffy cotton candy. They were never seen apart again. Always together, Clay laughing and Gogy calling him an idiot, though never really meaning it. They’d get teased and all, but they never cared. Gogy even joined a few games and introduced Clay to some of the older kids, though they were always blown away to find that Clay was the younger one of the two. But they were usually alone together, on the grass playing around catching fireflies, and hiding from each other behind trees. They were always smiling when they were within reach of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it! Congratulations. Anyway, as I said, the next chapter will take a little longer as I have to go back and revise chapter one, and then literally get my stories straight. You can follow me on Instagram @ Seleno_Sofia for more frequent updates on my story. Feedback is welcomed in the comment of course. Welp, self-promotion is over; excuse me while I go agonize other the dumb mistakes that I have undoubtedly left in to then silently fix. I'll also update the labels on the story and the summary (hopefully). And homework, yeah that's not as exciting, is it? Well, I am going to sleep now, it's midnight here.


	3. Pine and Oak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George arrives at L'Manberg and is greeted quite uniquely. Clay is tortured by the memory of the prior night until Patches shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am baaaaaaacccccckkkk. Welcome to another episode of me relying on dialogue although I suck at dialogue. Also dragging out the story because I'd like to keep chapters under 5,000 words. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail. Oh well. Sorry this chapter took so much longer, especially since it's not my proudest, but I wanted to polish the story and details before going any further. Also watch me ignore the shit storm of angst that the SMP cannon is right now. Though I will say it does give me some good ideas. Welp, enough stalling from me, here's the fic.

The sun lays on its zenith as the king’s carriage makes its way down the forested road to L’Manberg. He can feel every bump the wheels run over and hears the soft click-clack of the horse’s hooves. He longs to be able to feel those small rocks and pebbles under his heels, but instead, they are just annoying ups and downs that keep him from relaxing too much. He looks out the window which is no bigger than a chessboard. The trees almost appear painted as they appear and disappear, gone before George can make anything of them. They could be going in circles for all he knows; with such a small view everything looks the same. He thinks about what a waste of a good walk this is. A chance to stretch his legs outside of the stuffy castle is a luxury that George has yet to see. He mentally curses himself for complaining so much in his youth about the bugs and heat of the outside when he could have literally done anything to overshadow that back then. Now, there is nothing he can do besides stay in the stone-made shadows of the castle. He is king, and kings don’t have time for silly nature walks.

The sound of a near-by woodpecker is nulled by Bad’s constant chatter. Goerge isn’t even sure what he is talking about; everything just hits his mind and slips off without a second thought. Not that Bad is boring or anything, he has always been one to speak and impress, it’s just that he can’t help but feel down by how close he is to the native pines and how impossible it would be for him to go walk alongside them. This isn’t from a lack of trying of course; that was partially why he decided to visit so soon. Sapnap had mentioned here and there that L’Manberg is in the valley created by the TNT mountains. Apart from their richness in natural gunpowder, the TNT mountains are also known for their thick and untamed woodland. The trees here ran as deep as the mountains they rot themselves to: dense, strong, and mighty. Unmoveable. Due to this, the forest is also extremely feral and wild or, as George saw it, authentic. He had hoped that he would get to walk into L’Manberg rather than by horse as he is now. _I should have known_ , he thinks to himself, _of course, they won’t let me go by foot._

  
  


“Hey, George, is something the matter?” the cloaked knight interrupts with a curious concern.

“What? No, it’s nothing, I am just… thinking,” the king surmises, hoping that it won’t spark any further questions.

“What about, is it about L’Manberg? Are you concerned that something will happen when there?” 

“No, no, I don’t think I am in any danger. I am just… remembering something.” He looks to his fidgeting hands on his lap as his mind feels swollen with the weight of his old memories.

“Oh, is it anything important?”

“Not particularly, no. Not at the moment at least,” George mumbles as he ponders on the significance of his childhood memories now.

“Then don’t worry about it,” Bad says with a friendly smile as he puts a hand on George’s cape-covered shoulder, “I am sure it’ll come to you eventually.”

“Yeah,” George says as he takes the small reassurance Bad offered, “you’re right. I’ll probably remember when it’s important.”

“Of course I’m right! Now cheer up, you’ll need more energy than that to deal with Tommy and his gang.”

“Ptf, are you sure I can’t just take some of Tommy’s energy for myself? He seems to have plenty to spare.”

“Sapnap has tried, and, from what I see, he hasn’t been too successful. So good luck trying to get anything apart from ramblings from him.” 

“Great, no wonder Sapnap didn’t want to come with us then.”

“No question about it.”

  
  


Bad goes quiet as he understands that George needs his thinking time. George could almost recognize the smell of the damp wood and recent rain. It seemed like a distant memory which, in all fairness, it was. Yet it seems to him that it hadn’t been that long since he had last experienced it despite the fact that the closest he had been to a forest in years was when he stood on his balcony. Even then, this smell, though dulled by the wooden walls around them, is close and raw, like he could reach out and touch it. Of course, this made perfect sense now in the middle of a forest, but where could he have sensed it earlier? 

George tries to look back into the solemn corners of his mental library only to find that most of the books are repeats. Some words and pages have smudged ink and missing pages, but filling in what happened was no difficult task. They all smell of strong pine and oak, yet George still can’t find the pages where it’s written. The smell of paper and ink is barely there as now the entire library is tinted with the wooden odor. Then he gets a wisp of a source, a trail to follow as he starts to chase it. He turns the corner, his feet giving in like he was in a dream, as a figure runs about before him with the smell trailing them. He can almost touch it, almost see the dates on the spines of the books it carries. His breath leaves him as his fingertips nearly touch the shadowy man that eludes him. Then he stops and as his lungs force in a breath; it escapes him. The source slips out of view like ashes scattering in the far winds. He is left there, once again, in his confusion of falling leaves and old twigs filling his nose. He feels a particular breed of anger rise in him as it mixes with the melancholic blue of being let down again. He tries to vail the disappointment and frustration with justifications that explain nothing. He tells himself that he must be imagining it. He simply misses the smells of his childhood and this is just reminding him of that. His mind is just tricking him into thinking that the memory of a forest smell is with him more often than it really is. _I am sure it’ll come to you eventually._ His friend’s words ring in his mind and he decides to take heed to them. He’ll remember eventually if he has experienced the scent recently, no need to worry himself over it. Yeah, no need to worry about it.

To get his mind out of the messy archive of his memories, he decides to focus on what he is even going to do in L’Manberg. Sapnap did just drop this on him on the day, not that he was complaining too much though. He had never seen the province, only heard of their want for independence from Sapnap and the planning of reasons why to and how to prevent it. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he doesn’t even know why L’Manberg wants independence. He decides to store that question for the evening when he and Sapnap have their meeting, surely he knows. Regardless, he settles into an empty peace as he zones out and fully lets the pleasant smell overtake him, not letting his mind question it too much. He’ll remember soon enough.

…

They arrive at the open area that serves as their introduction to L’Manberg. Impossibly black-purple flags with a red “x” in a semi-circle surround the busy commune as the streets are cleared for the king’s arrival. The people continue to walk on the sides of the streets, skepticism on every face he passes. George can’t help but feel like they don’t really want him here. This is all in stark contrast to the warm and welcoming smile Tubbo offers as the carriage comes to a full stop. Their driver steps out and opens the wooden door for them, Bad stepping out first as a precaution. For some reason, Tubbo and Tommy had imagined the king stepping out onto a lengthy red carpet and meeting them at the end of it, looming over them with the weight of his crown poking holes in their pre-existing anxiety. However, when the man all but hoped out of the small wooden box their expectations fell to the floor. All of the sudden, it seems that does four short hours were more than enough time to prepare for him. He walks up to the group, his clothes portray the most importance to him with the long cape, well-tailored trousers, and sharp freshly-polished boots. 

  
  


“You are shorter than I expected,” Tommy says with no hesitation or shame.

“What, Tommy why would you say that I-” Tubbo begins as a nervous glimmer sparks in his wide puppy-dog eyes.

“What? It’s true! Look at him. He is barely taller than you, Tubbo, and Wilbur and I are much taller. It’s so obvious I-”

“Tommy,” Wilbur cuts in, the same acid to his tone as when they began the preparations, “can I speak to you for a minute?”  
A pale and scared look hits the tall youth’s face as a cold sweat burgeons from him. “Are you sure that is necessary right now, Wilbur?” he utters with a quavering voice.

“Yes, yes it is. Come here, it’s only for a moment.”  
  


  
The two step away from the situation, Tommy with his tail between his legs. The monarch can’t help but feel bad for the boy; even though what he said was rather rude, he really wasn’t wrong. Regardless, he is now left with a clearly-distressed Tubbo and Drista signaling him to take it easy on him. The king is extremely confused as to what to do. He already came here with the disappointment of the carriage ride only to get mild insults for his comparatively lacking height (although he is perfectly average). He had thought this would have been more formal than this, but, in all honesty, he’s willing to take a more laid-back affair over the strictly professional setting around him at all times. Still, he has no clue how to get the shorter Tubbo to stop internally hyperventilating. Thankfully, Bad seemed to drop his job as a guard for a second to serve as a friend to the young boy.

  
  


“Hey, Tubbo, it’s ok. Don’t worry so much, we know how Tommy is. Why don’t you tell us what you have planned for us?” Bad breaks in, giving Tubbo something to latch on to instead of Tommy’s current predicament.

“Yeah, let’s do that. I am so sorry for my vice president's behavior though; he tends to, uh, lack a filter sometimes,” he answers with a soft nervous laugh.

“Don’t worry about it,” George assures, “I am pretty average height anyways. I think this is just a land of giants.” 

The boy gives a bright toothy smile as Drista gives a thumbs-up behind him, a bee passing by, “Yeah I guess you could say that; Tommy and Wilbur are the exceptions though for the most part. Anyways, let’s get to business.”

  
  


The young brunette leads them to the inside of the large courthouse in the center of the valley. The same black and red flags hang from the walls, though not a single one of the crown’s is in sight. Bad notices this; George does not. The white quartz floors are pristinely cut and plentiful. _This must have cost them quite a bit from Skeppy’s province_ , George and Bad simultaneously think. Even so, it was an open-air building with a large open area and two chambers on the sides. There was a table set up in the middle for everyone to sit in. Tubbo offers the king a seat and then sits Bad right next to the king. He sits opposite to them as Wilbur and Tommy make their way in; Tommy sits to the shortest one’s right and Wilbur to his left. Drista stands to the side, silently and attentive watching the meeting.

  
  


“Hello, your majesty,” Wilbur declares in an executive manner, “I hope your trip wasn’t too much of a hassle. I know the ride through the mountains is not the most pleasant in the world.”

“No, on the contrary, I quite enjoyed the forestry on our way here; it’s been some time since I have been able to see it.”

“That’s good to know, I am glad you take such a liking to our local biodiversity. But anyways, I’ll let Tubbo begin today’s meeting.”

“Ok,” the rosy-cheeked boy pipes up, the residue of nervousness on his face, “yes, of course. So first things first, allow me to introduce ourselves by our titles. I am Tubbo, president of L’Manberg, Tommy here is my vice-president, and Wilbur is the founder along with my main cabinet member.”

The king gives a questioning look as he asks, “Shouldn’t we meet with your entire cabinet while we are here? And what do you mean by founder, was L’Manberg not already established for much longer than we have lived by now?”

“Well, you see, your highness, this system we have set up is still quite new, and my cabinet only consists of Wilbur for now though we do plan on expanding it to other loyal citizens of L’Manberg. As to how Wilbur is the founder, I think Wilbur should explain that,” Tubbo offers as he turns to face Wilbur.

“Alright then, I’ll try to keep this brief. I was born and raised here in L’Manberg. As a child, I knew we never really fit in with the rest of the king’s land so I began to set up L’Manberg as a more separate entity. Eventually, Tommy and Tubbo came along, and now here we are.”

George wants to ask more, ask how and why Wilbur got this far and why Tommy and Tubbo, but he decides to save his questions for later, lest he say something ignorant, and speaks, “I see. So are you willing to explain to me what you intend to do with this system as you are still a part of my lands?”

Tommy decides to speak up after sitting like a stone on the chair with stiff posture showing just how tall he truly is, “We are just implementing some additional laws within L’Manberg, and policing around. We aren’t going against the crown. We just want our independence from your lands peacefully; we don’t want to have any fighting.”

  
  


The monotone voice almost shooks the king with how different it is from the one that insulted him mere moments earlier. This was definitely not the type of meeting he was used to.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After saying his goodbyes to the boys, and checking to see if his little helper had kept the mask, which he had, Clay starts to make his way back to his house in the trees. _It’s a treehouse,_ he finally admits, _you could have decided to live anywhere and you chose a treehouse._ It is silly in all aspects of the word. Yet he can’t help but feel those proud golden butterflies as he is glad that he got to fulfill at least one goal of his childhood. The walk away from his old home is just as entrancing as the walk there. Except this time, he notices the striking smell of oak and pine rather than the collected symphony of the forest. At first, he thinks there might be a fire but he realizes that the trees have nothing to do with it. This scent only finds him after close nights with Gogy, which is exactly what last night was. He frowns as then a soft and sweet smell starts to haunt him, or, at least, the memory of it does. Although the strong odor of forest lays on him heavily, the clear echo of gentle pale blue velvet tempts him with past memories of his boyhood and of the prior night. He makes a turn straight into the thick and tame fauna after keeping considerably away from the orphanage as his internal compass leads him home. However, this compass is not pointing north, it’s pointing back to the castle, to the balcony. The sharp arrow summons that sweet smell down to him as it spirals around him. He speeds up a little in an attempt to outrun it. His mind is stubborn though, and the smell of oak only triggers the feeling of caramel on skin to intensify. What was only a small noise in the walls is poking out again and growling at his feet. The longing for that soft jaw keeps distracting him. Dread builds in his heart as he knows perfectly well what this is. He looks up at the empty structure in the tree before him. The precisely cut wood is sturdy as the branches begin to grow around it like a vine. 

The short relief of jumping and making his way into his main room is snatched away from him as the persisting feelings merge with that of his home. The soft glow of fireflies illuminate the wood and chests as the feeling of velvet wraps around him like vines crawling under his skin. He tries not to humor this, not to let this take over him, yet he also knows that was a battle he lost a long time ago. The texture of velvet and wood mix; he wants to mentally dig himself into it. He lost that battle the second he accepted does dandelions. The fog in his head is lit by the flying bugs as it turns to strong honey that he wanted to swim in. He lost the second he decided he was going to give himself a time out later that same day to show those kids what they get for messing with Gogy. He wanted to protect the perfectly perfect and adorable man from any worry in the world. The second he started training to be a knight. _So stupid_ , he thinks as his cheeks betray him. The second he took him by the hand to the field. _So, so stupid._ Clay is a strong man, but a man can only do so much. George is too much. He doesn’t want to give in to his mind’s desire to lock eyes and see those ridiculously deep and warm eyes that look at him for only a split second but contain his entire world. To be back on that balcony and let his hand move just a little to the left and hold the other’s, the thought of such a touch sends hot coals to his stomach. The idea of bringing that head of messy and fluffy brown hair back here and never letting him leave his grasp tickles its way down his spine and spills to his sides like melting wax. Wanting to hear that dumb giggle as he tells him something that flutters his short treasure. To hold his soft cheeks with his hand and let a thumb gingerly stroke his faint pink lips. _You are doing a great job at repressing this, Clay._

He looks at himself in the only mirror he has: a particularly shiny sword. His stubbornly-disobedient and hay-like hair sticks to his face with a disturbing amount of sweat, freckles hidden in the red splatter that clearly takes over his checks. _I look pathetic._ The thought gets shot down as quietly as it’s conceived because the same person causing this whole mess would completely disagree. He would tell him that he wasn’t pathetic. He would tell him not to feel bad about it. The wax-melting candle starts to grow to that angry campfire again. Why should he have to deal with this? He didn’t leave; he wasn’t the one who got taken to the royal family without a goodbye. He was just the one that was left behind. The one that, just like dandelions being carried by the wind, was swept off his feet and then forgotten about, right? It’s not like Gogy ever tried to reach for him again until he began his training. Even then, he only saw him when he would sneak into his window. He was the one always reaching, Gogy only taking his hand once he had his fingers firmly around his. In that, there was a good chance that he didn’t even want him there, that he didn’t care. That he was only an after-thought as life as king took over. He is only some orphan, why would the king care about him? So why, oh why, did he still have this pull to go to Gogy’s window and steal him away so no one would ever take him from him again? To keep him in his arms and run his lips onto his until they were both fast asleep with tangled limbs. To make all this king nonsense go away and just _be._

He just wanted them to be together. But Gogy doesn’t care, he left and then never cared about him again.

He tries to hold his head together in his hands and attempts to rub the stress off to no avail. He’s tired. He had only gotten that one good night of sleep and he had gotten up early that morning. Still, it’s way too early to call it a day. He looks around his chest to see if any good ideas come to mind. His “work” is the only thing keeping him sane at this point. He sees an old fishing rod at the bottom of his chest as he pushes away fireflies near his face. The old wooden rod is faded though the string is still as firm as when he had first tied it; the small metal hook is slightly bent to the left but that’s a simple fix. He pulls out some surplus sticks he has laying around and replaces the beaten twig, the smell of pine radiating off them. With the basically brand-new fishing rod in hand, he tries to think of another item he could use. Then the simple answer comes to him: a shovel. The fiery anger at his core turns to a burning determination as it fuels his mind, a cheshire grin growing. He would normally go a few days between escapades, but he would normally never visit his king more than once a day so there is always a first time for everything. He ignores the flutter his heart gives at the acknowledgment of the double visit. He looks around the treehouse one last time before heading out. Then, a little red and brown striped cat jumps up to the floor and goes up to Clay with a little piece of paper tied to her collar. 

“Well hello, Patches,” he says with a grateful smile.

The tall man shrinks down to pick up the little animal as it snuggles up to him. He pulls the paper from the collar and sits down on a stool. His sister’s annoyingly neat letters are scribbled on the yellow paper. He reads it, her voice sound and proud in his mind as it is in real life.

_Hey idiot,_

_I see you are still picking on Bad, huh? Do you have a clue how much rambling I had to put up with? Bad won’t shut up about how he managed to step into cobwebs. Seriously though, things are getting a little heated over here. Sapnap really wants to get you in a jail cell and throw away the key. You are lucky George won’t let him; he did always have a soft-stop for you. But I know you hate it when I remind you of your obvious crush so I won’t, don’t worry. Anyways, Sapnap came back drunk and the guards had to hold their swords to Tommy’s neck to get him to leave poor Sapnap alone. He’ll get himself killed one of these days, I swear. Back on topic, I think that Sapnap might be joining me in L’Manberg tomorrow. He was mumbling about it when I had to tell him to go to bed. Oh, by the way, I have an assignment at L’Manberg now! Before Sapnap left they were talking about sending me there to make sure nothing gets out of hand. So yeah, that’s been my day for the most part: you and Tommy making my life harder. But that’s nothing new, now is it? That’s all I want to tell you for now._

_Take care of yourself and tell me where you got that cobweb from,_

_Sista._

Clay rolls his eyes as he quickly writes out a response. Patches, however, has made it clear that she isn’t going to go out for a while. He decides to let his plans wait a little; Patches wants attention, and, to be frank, he could use some of it too. He goes to the pile of hay in the corner he uses as a couch and digs his way into it. Patches jumps up next to him and they cuddle for a bit. He and his sister rarely get to meet in person so Patches is the closer they get most of the time. The sleep debt from the prior nights start asking for payment and Clay decides to give in and takes a nap with Patches next to him. He can go pick on Bad later.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy is as stiff as a plank, Tubbo is willfully ignoring it, and Wilbur is ready to pull the former to the side again if need be. Drista snickers in the background at how ridiculously funny it is to watch Tommy try to be proper. He turns around just enough to shoot an angry look at her simley mask as Tubbo makes a pleading face towards her begging to not pick on Tommy too much. Seeing as how the blonde boy is clearly trying his best to stay behaved and the circumstances, she decides that a little bit of poking here and there can’t be too bad. George sees this interaction and can’t help but wonder just what is going on. 

  
  


“Hey, Tommy,” Drista begins, “are you alright? You don’t seem very comfortable.”

Tommy takes in a sharp breath as he forced a smile onto his face, “On the contrary, Drista, I am perfectly comfortable, thank you very much. Do you feel comfortable sense you seem to always be standing? Why don’t you go out to the town and get yourself something to eat while we hold the meeting?”

Drista lets a sly grin escape her as she, once again, twists Tommy’s words, “Tommy, are you suggesting I abandon my post to look over you all? And with the King’s presence no less? It seems to me you are trying to go against the King in urging me to oppose my orders.”

Tommy is about to blow as the force of his curses are held back only by his grinding teeth and a witty comeback threatening his composure. 

Wilbur interjects to try to keep a civil Tommy for a bit more than 5 minutes, “Drista, you know how much we value your work here and we welcome you to do surveillance if the king so wishes it. However, it seems best that you take a small break to get some fresh air as Bad can take over for the duration of the visit.”

  
  


She thinks it over, knowing this is just a cheap excuse to keep her from breaking Tommy, and decides that she is more afraid of Wilbur than she likes to mess with Tommy. She deserves a small vacation from L’Manberg either way, she could use a day out.

  
  


“Alright then,” she says as her tone shifts to one of conformity, “I am going to the castle ground for the day then. I deserve a break from this town; good luck Bad, they can be a lot to deal with.”

“Ok Drista, don’t worry I’ll make sure nothing happens,” he responds with a kind smile, completely oblivious that she has ust been subtly kicked out. 

  
  


She confidently strides her way out onto the sun as she disappears into the buildings within a second, much like her brother after his escapades. This unsettled Bad a little; the fact that they both wear green doesn’t help.

  
  


“Anyways,” Tubbo announces to rail the conversation back on topic, “We want to take you on a tour around our L’Manberg so you can see how things are around here.”

  
  


Bad raises his eyebrow in surprise as George’s face lights up. He was expecting a boring meeting as they had had so far, but, clearly, the leaders of L’Manberg were anything but traditional. Most of the dukes and duchesses never bothered offering a tour and he only knew them by their title and resource. But to get to go out and see the place, to see the people, the market? This is a first, and he is going to take it.

  
  


“I don’t see why not. I think that it would be good for me to know more about how things are here in L’Manberg apart from what positions you all hold.”

“Perfect then!” Wilbur exclaims as he moves to stand from the table, “Let’s get to it then, I believe Tommy will be the one to do most of the tour, right Tommy?”

Tommy gingerly stands up as the teeth in Wilburs smile feel like daggers pointed at the bridge of his nose, “Yes, I will do the tour. I will make sure to do my best.” 

  
  


Tubbo and Bad stand up and continue forwards with the others. The slightly-past-noon sun shines on them, lighting the way to the ways of the valley. George is exhilarated to get to walk around the province or to walk around anywhere for that matter. The buildings in L’Manberg are structured with dark obsidian and everything is laces with quartz. The streets are busy with people though they remain restrained in the presence of the foreigner. But even so, the market is still loud and active, and George, although not too keen on all the stares and people, is more than happy to see the sun on public streets. One thing that sticks out to him though is a large obsidian box in the middle of the humble square, green leaves peeking above it.

“If it is not a bother,” he says, “might I ask what the obsidian chamber is for?”

“Oh, you mean the L’ Mantree,'' Tommy says, a passion coating his words, “ever since L’Manberg was established in this valley, there has been a tree there. This current one is the third generation I think. Tubbo, Wilbur, and I were all here for its official planting after the previous one finally gave in. It was around then that Wilbur finally involved us in his big plans.”

  
Tubbo looks fondly at the tree and then the two youngsters met eyes in a tell of brotherhood. They know what the other is thinking, about that day in the bright April sun after a week of rain. How the leaves of the old tree finally fell after weeks of turning to different variations of brown and yellow. They remembered the small sapling that they had been caring for about a year before it got to bask in its father's throne. Its small dainty leaves were now higher than they could reach, the truck thicker than Tommy’s skull. There is an un-doubtable pride plastered on their faces. Wilbur just looks at it with a monotone gaze. If there was any emotion there, it was lost by his distant eyes and wavy hair. George can’t help but think that, even though he has to be older than this tree, the tree still towers over him. _So childish_ , he thinks to himself. They began to leave the square and go into the different corners of the commune with Tommy using his quarrelsome talent to fill the air with the tales and explanations as to why the children had their hands full of a grayish powder and why they didn’t use any torches in L’Manberg, ever. This was a wonderful change of pace for George, he is more than happy to be able to walk in the streets that he would normally only be able to see from a distance. It’s a small but much-appreciated luxury that he has been given, and such starts the tour proper. He knows this will be a fun time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter should come out in at most a week-ish. Sorry, I suck at writing romantic/sexual tension, I am ace and can only experience any sort of romance from movies and books, lol. Still, there's a first time for everything. Again, I am spending some more time editing before actually getting to chapter 4 cause I am a perfectionist with no sense of scale. Remember to comment and stuff, yeah. Oh, side note, I kinda want to write some bonus scenes that are canon in my head but I can't fit into the story. Stuff like how the hell Drista is an orphan's sister, more flashbacks to George and Clay at the orphanage, and some Skephalo because I want to but can't figure out how to make Skeppy plot relevant. Would you guys like that? Idk let me know, see you all next week.


	4. Gunpowder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George finally gets to go on a nature walk. A lot of orphanage scenes because I wanted to write fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello. I am back with a chapter (sorry it's so late). This doesn't do too much for the current plot but I wanted to write more fluff, so I did. Hopefully, my grammar is passable. Enjoy

Clay is a happy kid in all regards. Even at what would normally be the troublesome age of nine, he’s a delight. He brings life to a room, and he can carry a conversation without either party noticing. He is also one to wear his heart on his sleeve; it was impossible to not know what he’s feeling. He smiles with more teeth than he has lashes and his eyes will light up at right about anything that can make him smile, no matter how small. The disturbingly little amount of impulse-control he has would normally be a call for alarm, but Clay has always been well-behaved. He is always one to be happy and try to make things better. It just isn’t in his nature to slash out, he always finds another way without a second thought.

However, this expressiveness also means that, when Clay gets angry, it’s obvious. On this particular day, it was Dave who had managed to make the eternally-smiling boy smoke from his ears. Dave had noticed that Clay was spending a lot of time with that strange kid who always sat alone. It was weird. That kid was freaky. He spoke oddly and never liked to play. This made it super strange when Clay started to play so much with him. The other boys didn’t like that. So, they tried to get Clay away from him. This backfired.

  
  


“What do you mean he’s weird?!” Clay spits to the daring boy.

“I mean he’s weird! Look at him, he just sits there and doesn’t do anything or every play with us. He isn’t even nice!” Dave shouts back in the other’s face, confusion at Clay’s actions sharpening his words.

“He is nice! He’s just shy. He’s the nicest person around and he does play. He plays with me!”

“He  _ only _ plays with you and that’s because he doesn’t like anyone else.”

“Maybe he would play with you if you stopped making fun of him.”

“Clay, we don’t like him,” Dave announces as another four to five kids stand behind him in agreeance, “He’s weird and strange. And if you keep being friends with him, we don’t want to be friends with you.”

Clay goes quiet. Dave thinks how he has finally gotten to him, gotten him to understand how much they dislike the shorter older boy. He goes to continue talking when Clay grabs him by the collar and yells at him with the heat of a million roaring fires, “I would never leave George! He’s better than all of you!”

  
  


Dave sweats as he feels small tears of panic begin to form at the corner of his eyes; the flaming daggers that point Clay’s words are striking him mercilessly. Clay is strong when on adrenaline, and rage is a powerful drug. Clay’s eyes are shouting all sorts of other things at him as they begin to burn holes into Dave’s past certainty. His muscles are tense and his spine is urging him to get violent. The burning forest fire in his veins pushing him to do it. To burn the rat in front of him and destroy the ashes. He is going to lose it. He is going to throw him, or kick him, or  _ something _ . 

There is no way he’s going to let him get away with telling him to leave his best friend like that. Clay’s not thinking straight, if he’s thinking at all, because deep down he’s terrified. He’s terrified of what will happen, what he could end up doing. A fear that dances around the raging flame of rage like small flicks of blue-colored fire. But images of Gogy hiding his crying face was the only thing his mind can make room for; Gogy’s pristine and heart-aching tears now on the face of one of does responsible. Revenge. He is but the coal that flames furiously; the fire turning his composure to ash. He raises his fist high into the air. Dave prepares for impact after giving up hope on running. Clay’s red first starts to move in the direction of Dave’s good-for-nothing face when a pair of soft hands grab his wrist. He would recognize those hands anywhere. The touch of velvet brings his fire down as to not burn it. Clay turns his whole body to face a paler-than-usual George, Dave falls to the floor as Dream lets him go to attend to George.

  
  


“Clay, stop” the brown-haired treasure pleads as his shoulders shake.

“He was calling you weird! He was making fun of you! He wanted me to leave you!” Clay tries to explain as his body pulls him back to the child on the grass, but he keeps his eyes solely on his friend.

“No, Clay, don't- don’t do anything! Just leave him alone, let's go...” George begs as he tries to move him, hand still on his wrist.

Clay releases his hand from the other’s grasp as he begins to storm his way back and he says, “No! I can’t let him do that! I won’t-”

“ _ Stop _ !” 

  
  


The scream pears through to Clay as the small crack in the older’s voice makes his heart sink. Cold water washes the flames as he stares at the burnt velvet. He turns to face him, worry taking the place of fury. The older youth raises his stare to meet Clay dead in the eyes; this never happens. The chocolate in his eyes is messily mixed in a pool of glimmering, salty tears as they start to travel down his cheeks. Clay knows this face. He knows it like the back of his hand. Gogy’s puffy red cheeks and sad eyebrows, he pouts in a way that only breaks Clay’s heart into useless shards. His eyes are locked away behind the burgeoning sea of tears. A cold shiver runs down his back as the feeling of his heart drowning in acid takes over him. The feeling of a clock stopping. The strings of composure snap under their own weight. He runs up to Gogy and hugs him like he would run away which, in truth, he almost did when the taller and previously-furious boy nearly sprinted to him.

George pushes up at the falling dam on his eyes; frantically trying to patch all the leaks. A pop here, and crack there, it’s crumbling. But it’s overflowing. Even if he fixes the dam, the grief is about to flood him anyway. It will spill and no amount of patches will keep him dry. The tears he had been so desperately trying to hold in as he saw his only friend slowly lose his cool due to him started running loose and staining Clay’s wine-colored blouse. He just wants to cry. Cry, cry, and cry. The dirty blonde holds him against his chest trying to absorb all the tears away from George. Trying to take the sadness out of him as his eyes begin to sting. His heart’s chamber is flooded with Gogy’s salty tears, the ocean forming is too much for him. But would rather drown himself than let Gogy deal with this alone. His best friend is crying so much, and, although he doesn’t fully understand why, he doesn’t want George to be sad. He would burn at the stake if it meant Gogy won’t be sad. So, despite all the boys looking at them judgingly and questioningly, he refuses to let Gogy go. He won’t let anyone hurt him again. He won’t. Just as the younger starts to realize just how badly he had screwed up, he notices a stern silhouette approaching them. 

He shoves the still-crying boy off his chest. The shorter feels like the air has been sucked out of him as he sees the slightly nervous shake in those eyes that he now knows to be green. It feels like Clay was pushing him away, leaving him alone. Rejecting him. But despite that, he back-handedly reads Clay’s expression in seconds and starts running to hide behind a bush after Clay tells him to hide. Just as he does so, a tall woman with eye bags and a grimace reaches the group of freaked-out boys. She pulls Clay and Dave by their ears and looks at them with a sting eye. Clay can’t help but to keep looking over at George who, although feeling extremely cold, now understands Clay’s hurtful demand. Immediately, all the boys start telling her how Clay had grabbed Dave and how he was about to punch him. Of course, the fed-up lady had no time to deal with these shenanigans; Clay was the one to get violent first so her mind was made up. It’s easier to write up one kid than two after all. 

  
  


“You kids are such a nightmare,” the tired caretaker grunts as she let’s go of Dave.

  
  


George watches as Clay is dragged inside by the ear; he knows he won’t see him until bedtime again, and it makes his heart throb as it aches. He can’t help but even feel worse. This isn’t just an ocean that needed to be drained, it’s a hurricane. A growing and messy hurricane behind his eyes. Choking on the snot collected on his throat from the crying, watching his only friend have to pay the price of standing up for him is too much. It’s too much to know that Clay got into trouble because of him. He can’t stay here. The other boys are going to find him. They are going to find him crying like a baby in a bush. He runs away and off to the trees. Clay had offered to go into these woods plenty a time before. Every time they went to the forest together George would complain and worry about getting back on time. But he doesn’t care now. He does not care, not one bit. Clay will know where to find him, and he secretly likes the thought of worrying that caretaker with his disappearance. However, all these good memories are deafened out by the excessively loud sound of his heart trying to jumping out of his chest. He finds the small hut they had built at the base of a tree, the sign they had made about a year ago read with their messy letters: “Clay and Gogy’s Treehouse”.

George doesn’t even acknowledge it. He runs past it and crawls into the tiny corner they had filled with pillows and blankets. Little George shrinks himself down in hopes of making all of this go away; shaky and clogged breaths struggling to reach his lips. Every bone in his body is shaking as he desperately tries to plug his eyes with his knees to keep more tears from spilling out. He wants to make the other kids go away. Dave, the caretaker, the tears, he wants all of it to go. To disappear and leave him alone. To disappear and leave him. 

He wishes Clay were here. He wants Clay to be here and hug him like he does whenever he cries. He wants his best friend here to warm him up and show him which way is up in this endless, confusing sea. He wants Clay. He really  _ really _ wants Clay.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

L’Manberg, despite being restricted to the area that the TNT Mountains cleared for it, was large and lively. The latter half of the day greets George with the smell of dinner’s being cocked and sellers offering late-night treats. Tommy had walked them through the gunpowder mines, the residential area, and the small sub-sect of Mexican L’Manberg. Somehow, the people of the latter area were stranger than the valley’s main inhabitants. They were a lot friendlier though, which George appreciated. 

Even now on their way back to the courthouse to bring the tour to a close, George’s eyes remain wide open and that dopey grin is still plastered on his cheeks. This has been one of the best days he’s had since he took the throne; no overly-formal meetings and unnecessarily flowery language. Just walking around and listening to stories about a place. Despite Tommy being the tour guide, he and Tubbo would play off each other as they added on to the history of every location they visited. It was clear the two were attached at the hip, though George couldn’t help but notice something. They are remarkably alike to how he and Clay had been. Eyes lighting up at the other, not a hint of awkwardness when conversations fell silent. They knew what the other was thinking before the other could say it; just the sight of the other is enough to know everything they need. Yet there was a different air around them. It was a happy yellow, like sunshine. It was energetic, upbeat, light-hearted even.

When George and Clay were kids, they had something similar, especially when they would play hide and seek. But when they would be by themselves, when they weren’t doing anything apart from talking to each other, which Tommy and Tubbo were effectively doing, it was warmer. It was intoxicatingly sweet and heavy in the best way possible. It wasn’t nearly as bright and radiate as sunlight, it was more akin to comfortable candlelight. It wasn’t the jumpy adrenaline of running about as much as it was a steady but shy heartbeat that happens when your stomach is doing happy flips. George shakes his head to himself in an attempt to keep himself from starting to miss that. There’s no point in thinking about something that’s gone and never coming back. Swallowing the bitter stone in his throat, George’s heart freezes into a shriveled up raisin. He doesn’t like it, but now isn’t the time for this; he should enjoy himself while he’s here.

They all walk back through the plaza to the courthouse. It was still sunny outside, though the light is starting to wane. Walking back past the L’Mantree, they stare at the courthouse once more, the white of the quartz shining with a soft, peachy glow. Tommy sighs with relief and looks at Wilbur for an approving nod; Tubbo giving him a proud smile. It was still the early afternoon but they had already been around the entry of L’Manberg and the revolutionist didn’t have anything else planned. 

With this unspoken agreement settled, Wilbur turns to George and speaks with a grin: “I believe that is all of our beautiful L’Manberg, your highness. I do hope you found our little province pleasant.”

The king, who is slightly taken aback by the return of that all-too-familiar diplomatic tone, responds with a similar timber: “I found it to be quite beautiful indeed. I see you have made good work of keeping the land in order.”

“That, we have, and we shall continue. Though, might I ask, if we could perhaps, take some more jurisdiction over some small matter.”

“What do you suppose?”

“I propose that L’Manberg be considered more of a branch of the crown. Not a province, but a little more, shall I say,  _ independent?” _

  
  


The two younger boys look up, well in Tommy’s case, down, at the monarch with held breaths and wide, hopeful eyes. The king can feel that excitement in their gaze and the slight mischief that rests on the visible half of Wilbur’s face. He considers it for a moment. To let L’Manberg have this “promotion”, so to speak, which would change little of how it operates. However, being George, there is likely something that he is forgetting about that Sapnap would berate him for later. He concludes that it’s best not to make any promises. Though, if it were up to him, he would give them what they want. 

  
  


“I am afraid that I ought to talk this over with my advisor,” he tells them, “though I’ll consider some more libraries,” he says with his eyes looking at the background rather than at anyone’s face.

  
  


Although not the answer they were hoping for, the three locals shared a knowing glaze. They may have not gotten what they wanted yet, but they had the king’s good favor. And with that, the king was to go back to the castle. Bad had left a little earlier as his shift on duty was approaching. It took a great deal of convincing, but he had left. 

This means that George now has to take the carriage back by himself. However, as passive as he may be, he sees an opportunity when faced with one. He gets into the wooden box to exit the commune but stops the driver once they are out of sight. The man with a hay hat looks at him with a small frown and stiff back. He asks the monarch why they had stopped with a quavering voice. The king simply informs him that there's nothing to worry about and handed the man some coins. He then dismisses him as he thanks him profusely before going down the road on his own. 

  
  


…

  
  


Finally, George has the forest to himself. Well, he finally has himself to all too himself. He lets the smell of feral wood and the rumbles of the fauna bleed into him. It’s nostalgic, really. He can see himself in the quaint little shed he spent so much time in. It was barely a treehouse, if it could even be called that. It was just enough to keep animals and the rain out. He hums lightly at the pleasant memory of it. They would spend so much time there. It was their little secret in the woods. Bugs would crawl all over him though and he hated bugs, still does. But it would have taken a lot more than that to keep him from that small adventure. He takes a breath as he begins to walk deeper into the trees. He feels himself merge with it all, taking off the red cape that was just beginning to annoy him at this point. He feels right at home within the forest. His feet wander on the path as they point him into the wilderness. The longing to go in there and lose himself again fills him. To explore these untamed woods that shield the peculiar province. They are new to him, but he still trails the scent of pine and oak from his boyhood. But alas, a lot of people would look for him if the king were to go missing; if even for a second, chaos would break out. He was already probably making Sapnap go insane from the fact that he was walking. So, he forces his feet to aim straight ahead and down the cobblestone road.  _ So pretentious _ , he thinks. Why go through all the trouble of making the road out of cobble? Regardless, he allows himself to sink into the soft cloud of nostalgia. It cuddles him as he forgets himself in the foggy bliss.

But there is something strange about it now. It smells vaguely of fire. Like it was burnt in the past the ashes still lingered in the air.  _ It must be the gunpowder _ , he reasons, though it does little to settle his unbalanced stomach. He can almost make out the individual smell of the pines in the trees but it’s just  _ off. _ It’s off because it burns his nose and makes his mind start racing. He only senses this when one thing happens: Clay is angry. 

The idea is absurd; Clay hadn’t shown any signs of being upset last night. He just looked lost. His eyes would wander everywhere until they locked on him and not let go until George looked up at him again. But, then again, he always does that when George gets even six-feet into his bubble. So why did he just  _ know _ that he was upset? He’s mind immediately goes to stories of soulmates and such, but those offer no comfort. He shouldn’t trouble himself with this. So what if Clay was angry? There is nothing he could do about it. Then again, he is probably imagining things, a feeling isn’t a guarantee of someone’s mood. However, the fact that he even recognizes the smell bewilders him. 

This smell, or nudge really, has been foreign to him for years; just as his friend’s face had been.  _ God _ , he misses his face. The image of his sprinkled freckles and glimmering eyes is one he has had hung on his wall from the moment the other’s eyes lit up at the dandelion. He was brighter than the sunlight around him. And, surprising, against George’s dislike of excessive sun, he loved it. He loved that dopey grin and messy, long blonde hair. The sun-stained skin on his face housed his eyes so perfectly it almost made him jealous. He hasn’t seen those freckles in what felt like a lifetime by now. Even when he reappeared and there hadn’t only been a year between the knight’s disappearance and the rise of the Dream, the yearning to rip off that stupid mask haunted him.  _ Stop. _ He straightens his back as his walk shifts to more of a march. This is completely irrelevant to what he was doing. He is walking down the road and through the woods. He is here to enjoy this gem and he is determined to do just that. He isn’t going to let his run-away friend take this from him. He won’t. He won’t worry about him. He won’t worry that he may have upset him.  _ No. _ He won’t go to crazy conclusions from a random urge. That would be grasping at straws.  _ It’s just the gunpowder. _

  
  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“George?!”

  
  


The quavering breaths of a disheveled Clay break through the silence of the shed. It’s night now and Clay wishes he could have come sooner. He looks at the corner where he expects to see George with his head in his hands. As his eyes fully adjust to the low light, he sees a snuggled up Gogy in a little blanket nest instead. He can’t help but let a smile sneak up on him as he sits down next to him. Nudging his shoulder, Clay calls Gogy’s name to get him to wake up. The mess of brown hair slowly opens its eyes which are still a little red from all the crying. Clay wants to hug him, but he holds back as Gogy is clearly still hurt. He looks down to where the other’s head was; it’s trained with snot and tears. His once endeared look morphs as his eyes widen and his eyebrows shift. 

Gogy puts two and two together through his sleepy haze as he gingerly takes Clay into a hug. The blonde blinks as the sudden boy in his arms warm him. He hugs back and nuzzles his nose into the treasure's hairs.  _ So soft. _ The burnt velvet of Gogy’s hands make Clay bring him closer. The small jumps of the brunette’s chest as he tries to breathe normally are like church bells in Clay’s head. Then that feeling starts again. The same one he had last time when he had hugged him. He had wanted to take all his sadness away. Hold him so close that all the blue would drain from him and he could share all his love. But tears don’t just leave, and now he is overflowing himself. He starts to let silent tears drip onto Gogy’s hair without noticing. It just happens as the small faucet starts to run. George notices this immediately and looks up at him. Clay lets out a small giggle as the shorter takes his hands to the other’s cheeks to study his face like a book. It’s so bittersweet. He has that brilliant smile he always does, freckles glowing like stars, but his eyes are fragile and near-to-breaking glass. They look like tree ornaments that are an inch from falling. Transparent glass is holding back so much yet it's unable to keep it off display. The green color is only a fog to disguise the whirlpool underneath. Guilty swims above the fluorescent moon jellies of regret, hurt preying in the background. The water was cloudy and uneven, spinning in its glass bowls as Gogy wanted to hold them still and calm all the living things within. His glow was muffled and steady hands begin to shake. He wasn’t just a puppy, he’s a beautiful mess that was barely keeping it together. For him. He was getting it together for him. Clay is keeping both his and George’s tears locked away, and there is simply no room for both. 

  
  


“Clay…”

  
  


And with that, everything spills over. Moon jellies and fluorescent fish start jumping out onto George’s shoulder. Clay starts sobbing uncontrollably yet he isn’t just sad. This comfort. This warmth was quickly filling him and all the tent up anger and fear was evacuated. Gogy lets out soft shushes as Clay’s tears swirl their emotions together. George, though mostly having let it all out of the blanket, starts to pour with Clay. He stays quiet this time, their collective rain a hurricane. George is the eye of the storm and Clay the winds around it. Clay knows the other is crying though, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. It brings both a cozy blanket around him as an erupting well in his chest. He doesn’t want to make Gogy cry. He  _ never _ wants to make Gogy cry. 

His eyes turn to waterfalls as he bawls unto George. The older feels his body numb at the sudden larger outburst. Clay never cries, not like this. But he wants to be there for him. The number of times that Clay had been there for him, hugging him as he cries his eyes out, he has to return the favor. He holds the taller closely and places one of his small hands on his hair to push his head further into his shoulder. Clay lets his arms shakily hold his shoulders. Without thinking, Gogy’s hands move from the other’s back to hold his head. He places a soft kiss on his forehead. 

The two boys look at each other for a moment. Tears seemingly put on pause. At first, both their eyes turn to stone as they wait for a sign from the other. Waiting to see what that means, if it will change anything. Clay’s tears drip as a smile cracks onto his lips. He begins to laugh to himself and Gogy soon follows. They sit there, in the middle of the night in the middle of the woods, in a pile of blankets and weak wood. The blonde looks out at the open forest. 

Fireflies. Fireflies everywhere. They dance in the air and fly calmly around, dancing specks in the sea. They look like pretty stars in the dark forest. But nothing is as pretty as Gogy. The moonlight glows from his skin and his brown eyes show every single firefly as his pupils turn into an ocean. His hair is messy and dark but shines with the pale light. He is leaning on Clay as the last silver tears roll off his face. He is messing with a dandelion again, the white of the seeds standing out against the dark ground. He offers it to Clay who takes it and interlocks their hands before Gogy could pull him away. The fireflies are beautiful as they are far away from the entrance of their sanctuary. They don’t know what this is. Nor do they know exactly what this is called. They know best friend doesn’t do justice to them. To one bit. 

  
  


“You’re a dream.”

  
  
Clay looks at a quiet Gogy who is this close to falling asleep. His lashes are long and the shadows they make on his irises are entrancing. Clay doesn’t know how Gogy knew to say that. He tried not to show it how much the lady’s comment hurt, but it did. But Gogy knew. Somehow, someway, he knew without him ever telling. His wounds are healed by the absolute honey in which the sleepy boy next hugs his arm for support. It’s so sickeningly sweet. George is so incredibly sweet. He lays him down on the pillow, ready to grab one for himself and sleep on the other corner, when those soft hands grab his wrist once again. Those bashful brown eyes tell him all he needs to know and tucks himself under the blankets with him. George is already asleep by then, but Clay looks at him in complete awe and love. He never wants to leave Gogy. He never wants to leave him alone. He wants everything and everyone to disappear so he and Gogy can just be together forever. Sleep waltzes on his face, a firefly finding its way in. Its glow lights up Gogy’s small nose.  _ Such a dream. _ Clay closes his eyes and falls deep into sleep, Gogy finally at peace in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so you made it. I hope that wasn't too confusing as I get carried away. I will try to write some bonus Christmas/winter scenes because I want to. Also, I am lowkey making Dream and George soulmates because that is effectively what they are in the story so I might as well call them that. The smells and nudges are from their bound as soul mates. I probably should have specified this from the get-go but I just noticed I was thinking about it like that now. Welp, see you all in, hopefully, a few days. Bye!


	5. Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dream takes it a little too far and Drista is a spy. Also, a little bit of Skephalo because damn it, I wanted that fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, I can't believe school played me this badly. Well, that and developing a crush and shit and just, I am sorry. Agh, I'll probably write some one-shot so I can get my head back in the game but for now, here's the next chapter.

Clay’s back is sore and head dizzy. The warm orange rays of the setting sun welcome him back from his slumber. Patches is still peacefully sleeping by his feet, soft purrs coming from her like snores. He sits up on the hay he had decided was good enough to be a make-shift bed. It was not. His neck cracks as he moves his head in a circle around his shoulders and stretches his arms. The white-gray haze in his mind dissipates as he slowly becomes aware of himself and the room surrendering him. The pressure on his shoulder blades untangles itself as he forces his eyes to stay wide open. The little furball at his feet stays undisturbed when he runs a hand through her striped coat. Pulling his hands over his head, the fleeting memories of what he was doing before giving in to sleep slowly piecing themselves back together.  _ Right, the fishing rod. _

Shakin off what’s left of the tiered fog in his head, he finds the rod on the near-by table, ready for use. He makes his way to the shovel without much thought and inspects the rather large item. How long would it take to dig a big enough pit to pull this off? A half-hour should, by all means, be a formidable amount of time to get it done. He stands near to the window from which the evening's orange sun pours into the room. The wooden floorboards lay still as the warm tones tempt him to stay. Patches lets out a small sneeze, yet somehow doesn’t wake up. He considers it for a moment. To go back to sleep. To stay here. To leave Bad alone for once and just live a normal life. The cold stone balcony towers from a distance, old stone overgrown with wild vines is almost completely hidden if it weren’t for the clear break at the top. It stands on top of the world. It stands alone, and cold, and monotone. Dream places his signature mask over his face, sight restricted by the small holes for his eyes. He jumps out, and he runs for the town.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Drista!” Bad exclaims.

  
  


He looks around for a little as if he were checking for something before making his way to his fellow knight. Surprisingly enough, despite the family connection and identical mask, Bad has never had an issue with Drista. 

Now, the young girl is making her way to the other as she takes in the sight of the familiar square. It has been a hot minute since she’s had some time to herself, so this is a nice change of pace. Now standing next to the horned guard, they exchange small pleasantries about their day, royal duties, and recent weather. Drista can’t help but to eventually allow Bad to blabber on about something or other as her gaze zeros in on the border of the woods.

Her brother was there, somewhere. He had given her directions to his place back when he first took off, but she had been too angered when left and her memory was too clouded by old tears to remember now. Something about going with the sun? She can’t bring herself to recall anything apart from it being cringy and sappy as hell.  _ Probably has something to do with George _ , she reasons. 

However, her train of thought is broken by the sound of moving dirt.  _ What the hell? _ She tells Bad she’ll go get some water before running off to follow the sound. There was no construction anywhere around, and if someone was taking a dump, it was her job to stop them. Yet the small loose thread with her brother’s name on it floats around her mind, but she tries to pay no mind to it as he had pulled that little cobweb trick just the day before. Clay would’t have actually come up with something again so soon, would he? This doubt only grows as she searches for the cause of the sound to come out empty-handed. That is until another hand reaches for her and she finds herself going to an alley. Were it not for silver the bright green that peeked from the man’s longer wine-colored sleeve, he would have lost his hand right then and there. When they finally reached a full stop, her brother turns around and pulls his mask to the side of his face as he often does when talking to her. She follows suit but pulls hers over her head entirely, blonde locks tangle themselves on the wrecked thing. 

  
  


“What do you have planned?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question, and you want me to know. Otherwise, why would you drag me here?”

“Can’t a brother not want to see his sister?”

“Can’t a sister have an answer from her brother?”

“I don’t know, can she?”

  
  


Drista shoots her brother a playful look that, although by all means innocuous, dares him to keep this charade up. Back when the two would have seen each other on a nearly regular basis, he would have kept going until she snapped at him or Gogy got in the middle of it. Now, however, when they only see each other face to face once in a blue moon, there is no point in souring the mood. So he steps to the side to unveil the particularly large pit he has made. If a question mark were an expression, Drista would be wearing it right now.  _ What on  _ **_earth_ ** _ is he doing? _

  
  


“I better not get dragged in there.”

“I wouldn't dare,” her brother says before breaking into a wheeze.

  
  


But to Drista, something was different. He was in too good of a mood. He’s tea-kettle, obnoxious laugh seems a little too fabricated. It has been too close between pranks. This is all unusual but seeing a faux laugh was a tell-tell sign. Something was bothering him. Drista knows her brother better than anyone, and she knows only one thing bothered him ever. Even as a child, Clay has only one weak spot. A certain boy with a strange accent and even stranger color vision. 

  
“What happened with George last night?”

Dream looks up surprised. Bewildered at the statement, but unwilling to lie to his sister, he responds, “What are you talking about?”

“You know precisely what I am talking about. You never do this more than once a week. You never stay on the balcony without a word being spoken for more than 10 minutes. You never leave George smiling like that without trying to hide it.”

She takes a breath and looks into her brother’s identical eyes, unable to read them, “So, tell me what happened last night.”

Dream turns to face the floor. To face the hole in front of him. She was right. Of course, she was right, she’s always right. Mind running loose, tiring itself out trying to find a way out of the quicksand, Dream found there was no getting around Drista; no point in lying now. 

  
  


“I don’t know,” Dream finally whispers in a hushed voice.

She looks at him, eyes hidden by an invisible wall of defensiveness. Clay is easy to read; heart on his sleeve and more animated than a puppy. But one can only show what they see, and it’s so clear that he is so lost. As to what this fog that has him stumbling is, Drista doesn’t know. Yet she has the small inkling that, somewhere in that fog, there’s something either wonderful or terrifying. So she believes him. He doesn’t know. Or he does and hasn’t accepted it.  _ Always in denial. _ A small frown forms on her lips, but she does not open them. When Clay doesn’t want to talk about something, prying isn’t going to do anything. 

  
  


“So,” she finally speaks up, Clay looking up with his eyebrows in a soft plea to change the subject, “how much longer until the show?”

That cheshire grin quickly grows the taller’s face, though a little too wide to be truly genuine. “About a few more minutes. Think you can lure Bad to stand right,” he points to one of the carts near the center of the plaza, “there?”

A similar devilish smile sweeps over Drsita as she speaks, “Sure can.”

  
  


The brother gives his sister a pat on the back as his other hand moves to cover his face with the face once again. The younger shifts her’s to her face eagerly and her hairs readjust out of their tangles. 

At first, this mask business was a great bother to her. But after a while, it became second nature. She accepted it as a part of her, or at least as a link to her brother. Speaking of which, he had made his way back up to the rooftop of the building, giving her one last look before running off. Drista never knows what her brother is planning, but she likes being a part of said plans. So she makes her way to the hooded knight with glasses as he asks her if she got her water. After explaining that, although it took a little looking, she did get some water, the cogs in her head start turning. She could, by all means, just tell Bad to stand where her brother had pointed and he would do so, but she wanted to find a little more fun way around this puzzle. 

  
  


“Hey Bad,” she says with her voice rising an octave, “isn’t that duke Skeppy?”

  
  


Immediately, the usually chill guard snaps his head to look to where the girl is pointing. His pupils widen as his eyes nimbly dart around the crowd desperately looking for that familiar head of raven, spiky hair.  _ Skeppy didn’t tell me he’d be staying today,  _ he thinks. He can’t say he isn’t a little disappointed that Skeppy didn’t tell him, but that’s completely beaten down by the delight and excitement. 

  
  


“Where? I don’t see him,” he answers with a smile.

“Right over there, I think you’ll have to go by that cart to catch him.”

Bad was already sprinting to the cart before Drista could finish her sentence. The zeal that carries him over, unfortunately, also prevents him from seeing the oh-so-recognizable green giant who approaches him from the side. Turning on his heel, his body faces the criminal, eyes still on the near-by crowd.

  
  


“Excuse me, have you seen a guy with a blue-ish green-ish cape and black hair around?” he asks with a wide smile. 

  
  


Dream almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. Of course Bad and Skeppy were still close, even back in knight training, they were inseparable. But the nice memory and small guilt of getting in between the two evaporates as pity gives way to prideful anger in his chest. He feels wronged somehow. Cheated out of something that Bad and Skeppy have. It doesn’t feel fair as his mind drifts somewhere else before he can even register what it is. It goes to fireflies late at night and his hands titch to hold a dandelion. He grinds his teeth as he trips his old friend by kicking his foot. The normally alert man is completely taken by surprise as he feels like weight shifts from sturdy feet to thin air. He turns himself to fall on his hands but gravity outruns him and he falls half on his arm. Dazed and confused, he looks up at the now frightening mask that stares at him. 

In one movement he stands and pulls his sword from his side but the other pearls up to a rooftop before Bad can even turn to fully face him. Bad quickly got a ladder and began to go up after him. 

Drista watched from below, not feeling as playful as before. Everything had been just as it always was, but then Clay shifted. She doesn’t know exactly what caused it but she saw how his arms tense, his neck stiffen how his hands balled into fits. This definitely wasn’t like Clay. After that, he was stiff, unreadable apart from anger. 

Dream jumped from rooftop to rooftop with unsettling accuracy. The thump of his feet on the ceilings rhythmic and predictable, jumps calculated, and landings on the beat. Bad chases him with much more fluidity but still unable to reach him. They were about to make a full circle around the place, and Bad is within arm's length of Dream’s hood. He reaches for it, one more step and he would catch him. Then Dream stops and spins around as Bad stumbled forwards only to be caught by something. The line of the fishing rod tucks Bad’s back as his feet meet the air, head aiming down. 

He crashes through the faux floor covering the pit Dream had dug, shovel still on the side of it. Drista looks down at the man in the pit, silent with the pain on his back. She looks up and she moves her mask just enough for her right eyes to fully meet the dead look off her brother’s mask meets hers. Nothing. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at her. He stares blankly at the pit he had dug.  _ What the fuck? _ Drista nearly whispers. This is not normal. This is not Clay. Whoever the hell this is they were not the same one who pulled the cobweb stunt yesterday. 

She moves to jump down the pit, making sure she has some pearls with her and a healing potion. The fallen knight looks up at her blankly trying to make out who it was through the white veil of pain.

  
  


“Skeppy?”

“No; Drista. Skeppy will be here in a minute. Drink this.”

  
  


She guides the bottle to him as he weakly slips it down, arms tiring from the simple motion.  _ He’ll be fine _ , she reasons, but Clay? Oh he had quite the stern talk coming for him.  _ I thought you were just going to lead him to the pit, not drop him from a rooftop.  _ She looks at Bad one more time, the color slowly returning to him, as she pearls out and goes to follow her brother. She spots that ridiculous lime green and pulls another pearl from her belt. She locks her eyes on where she wants to go. She lifts her arm, the pearl following the motion when she sees something from the corner of her eyes. 

A pair of horns and goat ears come into view, a fitted suit and red tie tailored to a t.  _ Shaltt. _ She clutches the small orb before it leaves her hand. She should follow Dream, ask what is going on, what got into him. But this is Schlatt. Schlatt could be planning something dangerous to the kingdom, much more important than her brother’s temper tantrum. Her brother turns to see her attention averted. She gives him a glance that says they weren’t done yet before making her way to see where the goat man was going.  _ Wasn’t he here just yesterday? _ He makes his way into the same bar as before, steps steady but his head hung low. Sapnap is nowhere to be seen; he’s still in the castle enjoying the off-day. So why would Schlatt be here? 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She makes her way into the tavern, the soft ring of the bell drowned out by the common array of drunk noises. The scent of booze hits her nose bitterly. Ignoring it, she lets her eyes look around before settling on the bar again. There, sitting on a high stoll away from the others is the tailored foreigner. She waits, no one seems to even notice him there. The minutes pass and the short barista looks Schlatt dead in the eyes, the latter’s horizontal pupils silently nodding in return. He reaches into his blue beanie with white lettering to pull a paper from the fold. The bright pink paper is given to Schalatt under a particularly tall drink. Drista watches intensely from a sheltered corner, the curiosity of the paper mounting. A meeting place? Information? On what? L’manberg? But the barista was probably from here though, most people of L’Manberg stay in L’Manberg after all. 

However, her thoughts are stopped by the sly interaction that follows. Schalatt’s eyes widen as if on command, the barista sending a coy wink. _Oh._ _Well, I guess it probably is a meeting place._ All the sudden, Drista has no interest in where they are meeting, what for, or where, nor on observing the interaction any longer. She scans the room for the fastest exit route when her eyes find the horned man again. 

Then she considers, why is he still here? She looks over to see the barista has gone off to the back, presumably to either leave or get something. Yet Schlatt sits there, shoulder’s straight, glancing eyes, and frequently checking his watch. Waiting. But the question is for who? She watches silently, her prior discomfort drowned by the growing skepticism. He sits still there, minutes ticking away on his watch, the bubbles in his drink fizzling out. The barista had gone back to work, and, apart from a few side glances, had left Schlatt alone. And seriously, what the hell is that drink? She had, for better or for worse, found herself in this social hole more than once, but never had she seen that drink. It was a furious pink color with bubbles on its surface, a red gradient at the bottom. It was fancy compared to the beers and whiskey that ran the place. 

Then someone enters. Hot pink hair and a stern look bubbling in their eyes, red tips fading into the pink.  _ Who the fuck… _

He makes his way to the back and into a door that is understood for employees only despite the lack of a sign. He goes through it without a looking back, no hesitance in his hand as he turns the knob and steps through. Despite the ridiculous hair, he goes unnoticed.  _ Probably because everyone here is drunk off their ass. _ Yet Schlatt, who had not even bothered to drink a sip of his luxurious drink, turns his head and his goat ears rise just a little at the stranger's entrance before returning his faux uninterested position. So, these two came here to talk, and whatever they were going to talk about couldn’t be any good as 1) this was way too secretive for two friends wanting to chat and 2) this is Schlatt. Schlatt is never up to any good. But for now, there was only one question left for her: should she wait and see this interaction through, or go back to help Bad? 

She had almost forgotten the injured knight and the potion can only do so much. _ Skeppy is around, I think. _ The Duke had, in fact, been in the plaza as Drista remembered him telling her at an earlier meeting that he would stick by and look around on that day. Surely, he would have seen the commotion her brother had stirred by now.  _ Eh, those two can take care of each other just fine. _

So she stays, sitting in a corner in a bar with her nose suffocating on the dense scent of booze, waiting to see what a goatman and a pink-haired man are to do next.

  
  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sir Duke Skeppy of the Diamonds and Quartz region has just stepped out of the local bakery with enough pastries for days. They were mostly muffins, yes, but can you blame him? On the days he can stick around longer than the morning meeting, he spent them with Bad, and the idea of surprising him with an entourage of muffins was too good to pass up. The raven-haired man jumps and skips his way out into the main area to find that there was quite the commotion. He figures it’s nothing and beginnings makes his way to the castle to suddenly have a hand pull him off to the side and away from the crowd. Struggling to not drop his basket and fearing for his life, he turns to the stranger to see a ridiculous smiley mask. He folds his lips into a straight line and feels the giggles bubbling in his chest until he can’t hold it back anymore and a fit of mocking laughs spill out of him.

  
  


“Wha- What are you laughing about?” the masked man questions, confusion blatant in his tone.

“You-, you are the one that Bed keeps getting beaten by?” he manages between gasps, “You didn’t even draw the smile straight!”

  
  


The shorter falls into another attack of giggles as the taller is more than a little lost. But as the words progress in the green one’s mind, Skeppy can’t help but notice the change in demeanor. The straighten shoulders, clenched fits at his sides. He awkwardly ends his laughs as a little sprinkle of that fear sets back in.

“Look, I don’t care for aesthetics. Bad needs your help, he’s on the alley next to this to the right. There’s a ladder on the side,” Dream speaks as he hands Skeppy a couple of coins, “You might need these, if not just give them to him.”

And with that, the taller leaps up the sides of the walls and out of the alley. A short unanswered call for clarification later, and Skeppy is dumbfounded. What was his deal? He knew about Dream and had made the mental image of him as a street clown. But he was weirdly cold to him, especially when asking him for a favor. This little questions-thread gets cut short, however, when he remembers what that favor is. A sick feeling grows into his stomach as his eyes widen with concern. He sprints to the neighboring ally, not bothering to check the state of the muffins to see a small crowd. Upon seeing his regal teal cape, people move out of the way for him to see a pit and a ladder on the wall. He looks down to see a sight that damn near breaks him. There, is Bad, wings curled around himself and tail limp. He was shaking in his arms as his face concentrated to fight the pain.

He drops the basket on the floor and goes for the ladder, making sure to place it next to the boy in the hole but quickly nonetheless. He borderline jumps down to see his friend with his eyes closed as he mouthed numbers, counting his breath. 

“Bad? Bad it’s me Skeppy, it’s ok, I’ll get you out of here, ok? Please say something?” the noble pleads between stray tears.

“Hi Skeppy.” he manages with a pained flinch.

“Shhh, take it easy, how bad is it?”

“It was a pretty bad fall,” Bad half-jokes, “but Drista gave me a healing potion.”

“Drista? Where the hell is she then?!”

  
  


He lifts his head to look around, a wave of small anger at the girl for leaving Bad here like this. He feels a pull at his short cape and looks down to watery, huge puppy eyes.

  
  


“Please don’t leave.”

Goddamn it, how could a demon make his voice so heartbreakingly sweet?  
“Hey, hey, it’s ok. I am here; I am not going anywhere. Just- can you walk?”

Bad takes in a shaking breath and whispers, “I think so.”

  
  


With a pitying look, Skeppy wraps his arm around the fallen man careful not to move him too much or elicit any more pain. Slowly leading Bad to the ladder, the look of uncertainty that fell on his face was evident. He may be able to walk, but going up a ladder was a completely different ordeal.  _ Welp, there’s only one way around this. _

  
  


“On my back,” he speaks as he crotches down.

“Wha- Skeppy it’s ok I can make it just-” Bad tries as an inhale interrupts him, “just give me a minute.”

“No, get on, we need to get you out of this hole. Come on it’s fine, please?”

  
  


Eyebrows upturned and eyes widen, Bad hesitantly obliges. Looking up the ladder, determination fell on the tan boy's shoulders. So he climbed, one step at a time as both his and Bad’s weight ached on him.  _ Who the hell even made a pit this deep in an alley? _ He forces his way out and with one heavy step, he gets them both out. Gingerly setting Bad back down on his feet, he looks over to see the discarded basket. Not really knowing what to do until the healing potion is finished, he reaches over and takes out a best-looking blueberry muffin and turns to Bad. 

The older looked at it and the soft spark of appreciation calmed Skeppy’s nerves. He took it in between shaky fingers and laced his free hand with Skeppy’s (partly for support, partly because he wanted to). Despite the piercing pain on his back, Bad enjoyed his muffin. A wide grin on his face as he devoured the pastry and Skeppy enjoying a raspberry muffin by his side. The healing potion hadn’t fully taken effect yet, but the pain diminishes quickly as the feeling of a warm hand and blueberries distract him all too well.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ I fucking hate hangovers _ . Sapnap was still in bed despite it being closer to dusk than dawn. His existence felt like an annoyance and his head ached with murderous intent. But regardless, he needed to get up and do  _ something _ . George should already be back from L’Manberg and their afternoon meeting was to happen in a couple of hours. And so, we droopy eyes and wobbly legs, Sapnap climbs out of bed and to change. In all truth, he knows he could just get away with PJs as the day was already drawing to a close, but in all honesty, he is just not going to be sleeping anytime soon. 

Stepping out of his room and into the spiral hallways of the castle, he started thinking back to the prior night. He was fed up about Dream again, then he went out drinking with Schlatt and then, oh, right Tommy. A drawn-out and annoyed groan leaves him as he walks down the stairwell, and it’s not due to the absurd amount of stairs.  _ At least I got a day off. _

  
Eventually, he makes it to the ground floor to see that everything is mostly still and quiet. Dust floats in the air as the only movement to be seen. However, his hangover is still rather loud though and so he takes no notice of it. He makes his way to the library where, more likely than not, he is to find George. He goes in to find it empty, neat, and quiet. That’s all that it takes for him to go into a small panic because  _ Where the hell is George?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, yeah, 5 chapters and we have made it through a whole day. This is going to take a while to finish, bare with me -^-.


End file.
